


Keep It Simple, Stupid

by Lomonaaeren



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aurors, Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:24:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco has kept tabs on the Death Eaters since the war, but they’ve made up such ridiculous plots that he hasn’t been very concerned about them. Now they’ve got a competent leader and a plan to assassinate Harry Potter. Draco’s worried—but Potter ignores his warnings and flirts with him instead. Draco’s life is not very much fun right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Draco and the Death Eaters

**Author's Note:**

> This completely ignores DH, because I could not find a way to make that book work with the plot of this story. Also, it is absolutely ridiculous.

  
“We can’t use Imperius,” said Jugson, leaning forwards to emphasize his point. The table that the Death Eaters had enchanted to hold glamours of triumphant battles for the Dark Lord’s side during the war—almost completely made up, of course—wobbled as he leaned on it. Draco rolled his eyes behind his white mask, but made a note that Jugson must indeed have a secure hiding place, since he felt free to eat all he liked. “The Ministry has put up wards inside the building to detect its use. But I know what we _can_ use.”  
  
“What?” Bellatrix asked in a breathless voice. Draco averted his eyes from her. Her mind had shattered when the Dark Lord fell, and she was now convinced that he was sleeping in some secret place and would rise to aid them if they could only do something evil enough to make it worth his while to return. She was a complete embarrassment. Draco wished fervently that his mother had had better taste in family members.  
  
“We use a _Commanding_ Potion,” Jugson said, with a fierce nod.  
  
“Ah,” said Avery, in a pleased voice.  
  
“Ooh!” echoed several of the others. Draco stifled the urge to beat his head against the table.  
  
There was a long, reverent pause, and then Yaxley, who was the most sensible one out of all of them, but still not in danger of causing the Ministry any lost sleep, brought up the obvious problem. Draco couldn’t, since he pretended to be both completely loyal to the Dark Lord’s memory and much stupider than he actually was in order to keep attending these meetings. “But a Commanding Potion tastes like dirty socks. How do you propose we feed it to the Minister?”  
  
“I’m sure someone can knock him unconscious,” said Jugson. “And then we pour the potion down his throat!”  
  
“Yeah!” said Avery. Draco wondered idly how Avery’s family put up with him. Of course, he’d never married and his parents had moved to the other side of the continent to get away from him, so perhaps the question was moot. Draco tried to envision an Avery family Floo call and came dangerously near to snickering.  
  
He changed it into a cough at the last moment, which was a good thing. Dolohov had chosen tonight to watch him like a hawk. The Dark Lord’s fall had turned him into a paranoid old bastard who made Mad-Eye Moody look the embodiment of laziness and social cordiality. Draco had already had to _Obliviate_ him twice—not because he’d given himself away, but because Dolohov had ambushed him outside the deserted old manor they used for their Death Eater meetings and tried to kill him while shrieking that Draco was a traitor. The repeated Memory Charms, it was true, had probably not done any wonders for his mental stability.  
  
“I have a question, though,” he said meekly. He was always meek here. He was variously “Lucius Malfoy’s boy” and “the boy who failed to kill Dumbledore” to the other Death Eaters; they tolerated him because one more person who had believed in the “vision” of pure-blood superiority was worth too much now to kick him out. Draco didn’t mind. It made his interventions to crush their mad ambitions much less obvious. “There are wards in the Minister’s office that alert the Aurors if he falls unconscious. How are we going to get past them?”  
  
There was a disconcerted pause.  
  
“How do _you_ know about this, Malfoy?” Dolohov said at last, his voice a thick growl.  
  
“I’m an Auror, Dolohov,” said Draco, and let just a bit of haughtiness enter his voice, because they would expect to hear it. “They tell me these things. And Scrimgeour has some sort of medical condition that sometimes causes him to fall asleep unexpectedly. He could hit his head on a sharp object and require immediate medical treatment. So the wards are there to let us know if he needs transportation to St. Mungo’s. Knock him unconscious, even assuming we could gain access to him, and we’d have three Aurors through the door before you could pour the Commanding Potion down his throat.”  
  
“I have an answer to that,” said Rodolphus smugly. Draco relaxed. Rodolphus never came up with any plan even halfway workable. “There’s a book in the Black family library I remember reading that talks about an amulet which functions like a specialized Portkey. It’ll take us past any wards at all, let us grab the Minister and force the potion down his throat, and let us leave again at once.”  
  
“Wonderful!” Avery said.  
  
“Yes, wonderful,” Draco said, pouring pleasure into his voice. “How do we make this amulet?”  
  
“Oh, you can’t make it,” said Rodolphus, with an airy wave of his hand. “It’s a bloody magical _artifact_ , Malfoy. The Amulet of Golden Wind, it’s called.”  
  
“So where is it?” Jugson asked eagerly.  
  
The light went out of Rodolphus’s eyes. “Er,” he said.  
  
Draco swallowed his chuckle better this time. Rodolphus was always forgetting some vital detail, such as that the magical artifact they would need to work their plan had been lost for several centuries.  
  
“Well, do you have any clues?” Jugson asked, impatient now. “What else do you remember?”  
  
Rodolphus scratched his head. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Maybe it was called the Amulet of Silver Wind, in fact. Or maybe it wasn’t an amulet at all, but a bloody great wooden horse. I would need to get to the book again to check.”  
  
“Right, then,” said Jugson, with a firm nod. “We’ll divide into teams, and one team will get into the Black family library, and one team will prepare to retrieve the amulet when the first team finds the information on it, and the third one will brew the Commanding Potion so that it’s ready when we have the amulet.”  
  
Draco sat back whilst, all around him, the others began to argue about which team they wanted to be on and how they were going to get to the Black family library, which was in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, where Potter and his permanent guard of Aurors lived. Most of the time, his job as a “spy” on the remaining Death Eaters was mindless entertainment. They hid well, because they had more intelligent relatives—ones who had not signed up to serve the Dark Lord—who were determined to protect them, but their plans were hopelessly convoluted and likely to become more so. A little pressure here and there, and they would bicker for years without doing anything dangerous. So far, Draco had only angled to make sure that Fenrir Greyback actually made a public move and was captured, and that was because Greyback was actually a threat, both to the Ministry and Draco’s own position.  
  
On the other hand, there was a remote chance that they might stumble into a necromantic ritual that could actually raise the Dark Lord, or find a leader who could give them the direction that had made them dangerous when _he_ was still alive. Draco could keep an eye on them to prevent that, just in case.  
  
Their stupidity both depressed and enlivened him. At least he always knew, when he went back to work on Monday morning after a Sunday night Death Eater meeting, that his colleagues could not do anything _worse._  
  
Now, however, someone knocked on the door that led into the cavernous room of bare stone, lit only by flickering torches because Jugson was a traditionalist. Draco lifted his head sharply, then wondered if he should have reacted so fast, but luckily, Dolohov already had his wand out and his face turned in that direction.  
  
“Who is out there?” Bellatrix asked in a soft voice.  
  
“There shouldn’t be anyone,” said Jugson grimly. “We’re all here. It’s probably the Ministry.”  
  
A current of energy coiled through the room. Death Eaters were _good_ at mindless violence. Draco bit his lip, wondering what he should do to convince the Aurors, if they were out there, that he was actually on their side.  
  
The door opened before anyone could cast a spell, however, or snarl instructions to move, and the intruder easily ducked the curse that Dolohov fired off a moment later. He stepped easily into the center of the room, in fact, moving with large, long strides that suggested a big man. A suggestion was the most Draco could get, since the drape of his thick dark robes hid his body most effectively. He wore a white mask just like the other Death Eaters, and he turned to face them from the head of the table, next to Bellatrix, with a dangerous smile in his voice.  
  
“Shoddy security you have here,” he drawled. “I took down the wards in two minutes, and with no alarm to you. If I had wanted to kill you, you would have died never knowing who your murderer was.”  
  
Bellatrix and Dolohov nearly sprang at him then, because they were mad, but luckily Jugson had better sense—a touch of better sense, Draco thought. “Who _are_ you?” he asked. “And why don’t you want to kill us?”  
  
“Call me—a friend,” said the stranger, cocking his head. Draco felt a maddening familiarity curl up his spine at the sound of his voice, but he couldn’t place it no matter how hard he searched through his brain. Was it one of the Carrows, perhaps, who had vanished and never been found? Someone he worked with in the Ministry? “I was never part of the Dark Lord’s glorious inner circle, but I watched what he did with admiration.” His tone abruptly hardened. “And I have watched what you have done since with _contempt_.”  
  
“Oi!” said Avery.  
  
“We have done the very best we could with limited resources,” Jugson began, in a delicately miffed voice.  
  
“I’m sure you have, I’m sure you have,” said the stranger, sounding bored. Draco’s momentary suspicion that he was there to incite the Death Eaters into a killing fight he could claim was self-defense faded. No, this was something else, maybe the slight chance he had been thinking might occur all along. He shifted.  
  
The movement drew the stranger’s eyes to him. Either he already knew who Draco was, which would not surprise Draco at all, or a curl of white-blond hair had escaped his hood, because the man nodded. “Lucius Malfoy’s boy, aren’t you?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Draco said, warier than ever. That was exactly the term the Death Eaters used to address him. For how long had he been watching these meetings?  
  
The stranger spread his hands. They were covered with thick leather gloves, hiding any sign of skin, though Draco thought he made out the lumpish shape of a ring beneath one cloth finger. “You see how he addresses me with respect?” he asked the rest of the circle. “He knows me for your natural leader. And I am. I learned from the Dark Lord. I learned from other Dark wizards. I have spent the last few years traveling the continent of Europe, studying under every powerful and dangerous practitioner of magic I could find. I am an expert on curses and on potions, and on defenses against them—and neutralizing those defenses. And it was all to one end. I have the same goal you do.”  
  
“Bringing the Dark Lord back?” Bellatrix asked, as she would.  
  
“Leading us to world domination?” Jugson said.  
  
“Eliminating the Muggles!” Avery pounded on the table with one fist.  
  
“No,” the stranger said, and he was laughing behind his mask, Draco was certain of it, at how utterly beyond this pathetic group all those goals were. “I can give you Harry Potter. I can bring him to you, I can show you how best to torture him, and I can find a way around his freakish luck that will enable you to dispose of him.”  
  
The entire atmosphere of the room shifted. Draco could see the idea taking root in their heads, utterly eliminating the hopeless—and harmless—plan of controlling the Minister’s mind and, through him, the Ministry.  
  
And Death Eaters were, ultimately, good at mindless violence. Political plotting had never been their natural arena.  
  
“What do you want in return?” Dolohov asked. Draco would have liked to know the same thing, since he was sure the answer the stranger gave them wasn’t genuine.  
  
“For starters? I would like to see him dead.” The man’s voice dropped to a sibilant hiss, and suddenly Draco was less certain that he really didn’t want this. It was possible to want more than one thing, after all, though he thought he was the only other person in the room to realize that. “He hurt me badly. Him and his _money_ and his _fame_ and his _prestige_. I am going to see to it that he pays.” He darted a glance around the room. “Who’s with me?”  
  
They all cried out in rapture, utterly won over. Draco made sure to cry with the rest of them, but he could feel cold sweat gathering under his arms and behind his mask.  
  
The stranger wouldn’t show them a hint of a plan as yet. He would cajole and make promises and work them over, so that he could be sure he had their loyalty and they didn’t question his motives.  
  
And that was exactly what he did. He was probably a public speaker in his ordinary life. By the end of the evening, Draco might even have believed him, if he were a good deal stupider.  
  
The rest of the Death Eaters ate it up. By the end of _their_ evening, they were muttering the praises of this new stranger, who had told them to call him Prince, and swearing various complicated revenges on Harry Potter.  
  
Draco left the room half-frightened, but mostly resolved. For too long, the Ministry had been content to leave the Death Eaters alone, partially because it would mean antagonizing certain powerful families but also because the defenses around the manor house where they gathered were supposedly impossible to pass without a Dark Mark on one’s arm—a piece of magic that the Dark Lord, and none of them, had designed. Well, this Prince had managed it. Draco would suggest that someone get started studying the matter at one. Perhaps they could come up with a Portkey that would actually function in the damn place.  
  
*  
  
Draco ran a hand through his hair and studied the report in front of him, then nodded. A copy had gone to the Minister to warn him about the Death Eaters and Prince and discuss possible solutions. Draco had also given a copy to one of Potter’s guard of Aurors who was there early, because of course Saint Potter was too high and mighty to come into the office before eleven on a Monday. _Hopefully_ , that would be enough.  
  
But Draco didn’t know anything about Prince yet, save that he was a powerful wizard and had the same grudge as the Dark Lord but far more brains. The precautions they already had in place _might_ be enough to save Potter’s life, but they might not be. Draco sighed heavily and pushed the report away from him, to attend to some of the other pieces of less essential paperwork crowding his desk.  
  
“Malfoy!”  
  
Startled, Draco looked up, and blinked when he saw Potter striding towards him. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair looked extraordinarily ruffled. Draco rolled his eyes, not caring if Potter saw him do it. The man had remained a Gryffindor, for all that his habits had grown wilder and wilder. Potter would probably think it was a grand joke, and say, “That Malfoy, he never changes,” to his friends later.  
  
Draco suppressed the tiny wish that _he_ were one of Potter’s friends to appreciate and laugh over that remark. They had drifted into a sort of truce when they both became Aurors, based largely on never partnering and ignoring one another when they met in the office. That was the best Draco could hope for, and he knew it.  
  
“What’s this about a threat to my life?” Potter asked, far too loudly. Draco’s office was isolated at the end of a corridor, but _still_. Draco winced and cast a privacy spell with a small flick of his wrist.  
  
“There’s someone commanding the scattered remnants of the Death Eaters,” said Draco. “A wizard who calls himself Prince and claims to have a grudge against you. I would act carefully in the next few weeks, Potter, until we can—“  
  
“That can’t be,” said Potter, with an easy wave of his hand, and leaned in unnecessarily close. Draco glared back, not wanting to shrink against his chair like a girl, but uncomfortable with the way Potter’s musk—did the man never _bathe_?—was wafting into his nostrils. “Prince was Snape’s last name, and Snape is dead.”  
  
Draco swallowed. “I know.” Severus had died protecting him, an action which Draco was simultaneously grateful for and unable to forgive. “But someone else could have chosen the name as an alias. If we can figure out the psychological reasons for that, then—“  
  
“I mean, I don’t think this bloke’s a threat.” Potter shrugged and nudged enough of Draco’s paperwork aside to sit down on the desk. Draco opened his mouth in outrage to tell Potter that was his _desk_ , but the idiot was chattering on, and what he said next was enough to shut Draco’s mouth hard. “It’s not Snape. Therefore, he’s not a threat. Just some other git with a grudge. If he comes after me, then I’ll kill him. _Pow_!” He flourished his wand, and a blast of green smoke shot out from it and impacted against the wall. Draco held his nose as he anticipated the scent of rotten eggs that spell usually left behind. He was startled to smell roses instead. Potter must have modified the spell. Quite a feat, to both do that and make the incantation non-verbal.  
  
Draco felt another rueful little pulse. Modifying spells was one of his favorite hobbies. He would have liked to talk about this over Firewhiskey with Potter, and maybe laugh at the stupid things he’d say when he was pissed. Certainly it had to be a different, more amusing variety of stupid from that the Death Eaters or the other Aurors provided Draco.  
  
“I think this could be the real thing,” he said. “Some of what he said last night—“  
  
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about this, Malfoy,” said Potter, and _patted his cheek_. He seemed to think that Draco’s stare of sheer goggle-eyed bewilderment was an invitation, because he leaned in, his breath touching the place his hand just had, and whispered, “Instead, why don’t you think about more pleasant things? Dinner with me tomorrow night, perhaps?”  
  
Draco stared for just a moment longer.  
  
Then his resentment that Potter seemed to be up to his old games, just when Draco had finally thought they’d settled into an adult, working relationship, reared up. Draco narrowed his eyes and made his voice icy. “I don’t go on dates in the middle of the week, thanks.”  
  
He expected Potter to claim that this wasn’t a date next. Potter just looked horrified. “Look, Draco—can I call you Draco?—“  
  
“ _No_.”  
  
“You’re twenty-five, not _seventy_.” Potter leaned closer still, and his voice fell into something Draco could only describe as a purr. He was horrible at it, definitely. It did not make Draco wish yet again, and more fervently, that things were different, no it did not. “It’s perfectly acceptable to date in the middle of the week. Let me reassure you of that, just in case you forgot.” His hand smoothed up and down Draco’s arm. “So, what about it? I’ve been wanting to since forever, but—“  
  
“ _Potter_.” Draco shook off the hand like a dog shaking off water. “No.”  
  
“Well, all right, it was only since last week, but still, you’re bloody fit.” Potter looked at him admiringly. “Come on, why don’t we go out for lunch today if tomorrow night isn’t good for you? I know a place where we can get the most smashing curry and you can forget about silly little braggarts who think they’re after my life—“  
  
“This is _serious_ , Potter!” Draco flung himself to his feet, and away from temptation. “This isn’t a game! Prince is the best candidate for murdering you I’ve seen since the end of the war.” _Although I could give him some good competition, the way I feel at the moment_ , he thought.  
  
“But it is a game.” Potter smiled at him beatifically. “You’re handsome when you’re angry, did you know that?”  
  
Draco gripped the edge of his desk so he didn’t go for Potter’s throat. “Get _out_ of my office.”  
  
“Should I have said that you’re beautiful when you’re angry?” Potter looked concerned. “I almost said that, but I thought it was too girly. And I’m sure that you’re all man, Draco.”  
  
Draco kept from screaming by a very narrow margin. He drew his wand instead.  
  
Potter pouted for a moment, then rose, holding his hands in front of him, when Draco made a threatening flick with the wand. “All right, I’m leaving. No curry today. But think about tomorrow night, all right? You’ve been working too hard if you seriously assume that this Prince bloke is a threat.”  
  
And then he was gone, and Draco was left to sit down and weigh the advantages of helping Prince against the advantages of standing in his way.  
  
He got his breathing back under control, slowly. Then he gave a determined nod and picked up his quill again.  
  
Protecting Potter wasn’t his job, thank God. He was just supposed to keep meeting with the Death Eaters and finding out what he could about Prince; he was sure that was what Shacklebolt would tell him. Potter’s pet Aurors and his friends and his fans would do all the guarding that could be wished.  
  
Yes, thank God. Because if he were responsible for Potter’s safety on top of everything else, Draco was sure he would have gone mad. The man was _infuriating._  
  
 _In a good way_.  
  
 _Shut up,_ Draco told himself.


	2. That Mad Potter

  
The Minister had been no help. Of course, Draco wasn’t really sure why he had expected help from _that_ quarter. Scrimgeour was too busy trying to make sure that his rivals and enemies and friends didn’t swallow him alive in their attempts to “help him run the Ministry better.”  
  
Sometimes, Draco wondered if he was the only Ministry employee who actually cared about his job.  
  
His orders were simply to continue attending the Death Eater meetings and learning what he could about Prince while the “geniuses” in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement labored to invent some way past the protections on the manor house where the Death Eaters met. Draco wrote a short note requesting that he might be informed the moment they located something useful—which they probably wouldn’t, given that they hadn’t managed the task in five years—and then went home.  
  
He wandered slowly up the alley that the broken Ministry phonebox led to, oddly in the mood for grimy alleys and the sight of Muggles. At least it wouldn’t depress him _more_ than he’d already been depressed; he could always pretend that the people passing around him had some semblance of intelligence and exciting interior lives.  
  
He never took the Floo from the Ministry. An unfortunate experience with the Floo in his seventh year at Hogwarts had left him with a small, jagged scar on his elbow and a permanent hatred of whirling round and about.  
  
“Draco! Oi, Draco!”  
  
Draco stifled a sigh. He had thought Potter had left long since. He normally only stayed in the office from eleven to three, didn’t he? And then he would suggest going to a pub, or for “an early dinner,” and one of his pet Aurors would cover for him. It was typical of Draco’s luck that Potter would choose today to accost him twice.  
  
But when he turned around, he saw it was worse than that. Potter was trotting towards him, giving him the slightly mad smile of a Gryffindor who had found the perfect way to make a Slytherin’s life miserable. And he was completely alone. No Aurors followed him, no fans—no one who could witness an attempt on his life and scream loudly to fetch help, much less someone who could lift a wand and defend him if Death Eaters struck.  
  
Draco cursed and cast several temporary wards that would warn him if someone came close with hostile intent. Potter pulled up and gave him an offended stare from beneath puffy eyelids. “ _Really_ , Draco. I hear that kind of language from other people in the Ministry all the time. I thought your mother had taught you better manners.”  
  
“You know nothing about my mother—“ Draco began, and then shut his mouth firmly. Really, what would bickering gain him? Potter would only act as though he understood nothing, and flirt with Draco, and call him names. Draco refused to let himself be distracted from what was really important. “You should go back to your own house, Potter,” he said. “It’s not safe for you out in the open, now that the Death Eaters have a plot to kill you.”  
  
“Piffle,” said Potter.  
  
Draco blinked. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “Did you just say _piffle_?”  
  
“And so what if I said piffle?” Potter folded his arms and looked sulky. “I’m sure that _you_ can protect me, Draco. You always do your duty. That’s something I’ve admired about you _a lot_ in the last few years.” His voice grew soft and caressing, and he edged closer, looking like a duelist searching for ways through his enemy’s guard. Draco thought he was looking for a way to touch Draco’s arm or shoulder without immediately having his fingers sting from the hex that would follow.  
  
“You said you hadn’t started wanting to flirt with me until recently.” Draco moved his wand in a slow pattern, covering the angles that Potter might use to approach him from. He knew he probably looked ridiculous. He _felt_ ridiculous.  
  
 _Well, that seems to be the natural consequence for anyone Potter’s near. His sycophants just agreed to it, that’s all_.  
  
“I didn’t notice you were _fit_ until recently,” Potter corrected him. “I’ve admired you for a long time. Draco.” He practically sighed the name, and leaned nearer and nearer until he almost rested his head on Draco’s shoulder, his eyelashes fluttering.  
  
Draco felt a surge of anger. He would have given so much to hear those words in another context that hearing them like this only cheapened them, and reminded him, yet _again_ , of the enormous gap that lay between his world and Potter’s. He was tempted to Apparate home then and there and try to forget about Potter in a bottle of Firewhiskey.  
  
But the enormous git was still his responsibility, at least until he managed to convince him to go back to the house he had inherited from Black. Shacklebolt would never let Draco hear the end of it if he left and then Potter was ambushed by Bellatrix and Jugson.  
  
Besides, it wasn’t the _right_ thing to do, to leave someone as careless as Potter to his own devices when there was a threat to his life.  
  
 _Damn it_.  
  
Draco still cursed the day he’d grown a conscience. Life would have been so much _easier_ if he could have gone on behaving like an arrogant and spoiled schoolboy.  
  
“Listen, Potter,” he said as calmly as he could, “you _have_ to go home. If all the Death Eaters attacked at once, then I wouldn’t be sufficient protection. And you don’t want to disappoint your friends and admirers by dying, do you?”  
  
“I would hate to disappoint _you_.” Potter’s eyes were fixed on him with a hopeful adoration that Draco knew couldn’t be the real thing, because the real thing would have made his breath catch with wonder, and this just made him irritated and tired.  
  
“Then go home,” Draco ordered.  
  
“But you would know if they were going to attack me, right?” Potter edged nearer again, looking pleased with himself. “After all, you attend the meetings, and they wouldn’t make plans without you. It sounds like they can barely _think_ unless you’re there to prod them.” He dropped his voice into that purr again, which definitely did not affect Draco in any way and which Potter was pathetic for attempting. “ _I_ wouldn’t mind thinking if you prodded _me_.”  
  
Draco bit his tongue, glad for the fact that he didn’t stand immediately next to any of the alley walls, or he would have pounded his head on them and damn the consequences. “Stop it with the stupid innuendo, Potter, first of all,” he snapped.  
  
“Oh, but it’s only innuendo if it teases and taunts and doesn’t _promise_ , Draco,” Potter said. He tried to take Draco’s hand. Draco rapped his palm with the wand. Potter blinked at him, then said, “Ow. That hurt. Did you know that hurt?”  
  
Draco ignored him as best he could. The more he participated in this conversation, the longer Potter would stay beyond safe walls and the longer Draco would have to spend _dealing_ with him. “Second, I know Prince doesn’t trust me. He might have instructed the others to meet without notifying me, or created plans that don’t rely on my presence. So I can’t be absolutely sure of what Jugson and the rest intend any more. Any margin of uncertainty is too small where your life’s concerned.”  
  
“I knew it,” said Potter, looking as happy as a small child who had been offered ice cream.  
  
Draco frowned. “Knew you were in danger? Then I don’t understand why you haven’t gone home already—“  
  
“Gryffindors don’t _run_ from danger,” said Potter, with a stupid flourish of his cloak. “We _face_ it.” He wore an insufferably smug expression when he dropped his cloak and beamed at Draco. “And I _knew_ that you had some feelings for me! You want me safe. That’s so sweet.” He tried to pat Draco’s cheek again.  
  
Draco snapped his teeth at Potter’s reaching fingers this time. Potter blinked. “I might almost say that you’re annoyed with me, Draco,” he murmured. “What did I do?”  
  
“I _am_ annoyed with you,” Draco said, deciding that he had nothing to lose. They were outside the Ministry, and there was no one to hear him speak to the sainted Harry Potter like this. “Goddamn it, Potter, I know full well that you’re only flirting with me because you’re bored and this is a game to you—“  
  
“It is, Draco,” Potter said, and his face was flushed and his voice hopeful. He leaned into Draco’s personal space, making Draco’s wand hand twitch. “The most important game. I want to make you love me, because I already love you so much, and it’s only fair that you should love me back.” He ran his fingers caressingly over Draco’s shoulder.  
  
That was _enough_. Draco cursed Potter with boils and Apparated home. The minute he arrived at the Manor, he sent an elf directly to Shacklebolt’s house with a note warning him that Potter was wandering around alone—it was faster than an owl—and then went to ransack the cellar for Firewhiskey. He would drink himself into oblivion, or at least as much as he could manage on a Monday night when he had to be in to work at nine in the morning.  
  
*  
  
Draco could feel the change in the Ministry the moment he arrived. Currents of conversation that were usually still at this time of the day flowed madly along the corridors. Aurors nodded at each other with significant looks. Draco heard Potter’s name mentioned more than once, and now and then people gave him pitying glances.  
  
He arrived at his office and was unsurprised to find a memo from Scrimgeour summoning him to a meeting. With a heavy sigh, he went, only taking a moment to cast a spell that would clean any forgotten dirt smudges from his face and any ruffled tangles from his hair.  
  
Draco’s gut twisted the moment he stepped through the door of Scrimgeour’s office. Potter, disappointingly free of boils, was lounging in a chair already, only two of his usual protectors sitting primly behind him. When Draco entered, Potter twisted around and beamed up at him.   
  
“Draco! You came.” A lazy smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Would you like to make a regular habit of that?”  
  
It took Draco a moment to understand the innuendo. When he did, he had to choke back his outrage. He’d worked hard to make people in the Ministry respect him for who he was after the war, and now Potter’s companions were sniggering and even Scrimgeour seemed to have difficulty holding a straight face. It wouldn’t be hard for Potter to undo everything he’d labored for.  
  
Draco sat down in his own chair and kept his eyes fixed sternly ahead. It still meant that he had to watch Scrimgeour cough his way through the laughter, but at least he didn’t have to look at Potter—  
  
Who was making an attempt to intertwine his fingers with Draco’s between their chairs. Draco folded his hands firmly in his lap and said to Scrimgeour, “Sir. What is this about?”  
  
“A threat,” said the Minister, and his face finally cleared. “A very large and public one. The first public threat from the Death Eaters since the end of the war, in fact.” He folded the _Daily Prophet_ , which had been lying in front of him, and slid it across the desk to Draco, tapping the photograph on the front page helpfully.  
  
Draco restrained his comments about how the Ministry wasn’t even alert enough to get there first and take its own photographs, and examined the picture. It showed the Dark Mark—and didn’t _that_ put a shiver, of both disgust and remembrance, up his spine—hovering above a small house that Draco thought might be on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. The door to the house hung open, and two of the front windows were broken. Draco grimaced and scanned the article. He recognized Avery’s work; he had always thought it particularly threatening to break glass, for some reason. Draco suspected he just liked the sound it made when it shattered.  
  
 _DEATH EATERS BACK?_ the headline bleated. Draco squinted. Had they actually used dark green ink for the letters? It seemed they had, probably trying to match the shade of the Dark Mark. Draco shook his head and passed the paper back to Scrimgeour.  
  
“I knew nothing about this,” he stated plainly. “It may show that Prince doesn’t trust me and is already encouraging the others to act outside my supervision. Or he may have done it himself, in order to show Jugson and the rest that there will not be immediate retaliation for any act that announces Death Eater presence. The second one would be my guess. I think even Avery would require more convincing than one day’s worth.”  
  
“So you say,” muttered Scrimgeour, surveying him skeptically.  
  
Draco ground his teeth, but he had long since mastered the art of doing so without letting any sound slip into the outside world. He kept his face and tone both flat and calm as he said, “If you no longer trust my expertise on this case, sir, remove me from it. I’m sure that I could find some other and better way to serve the Ministry.”  
  
“No one said anything about _that_ ,” said Scrimgeour, and this time pursed his lips at Draco, as if he had demanded to be taken off the case and sent on some less dangerous mission. “You’re our resident Death Eater expert. If you insist that they wouldn’t move so soon, of course we’ll have to believe you.”  
  
“ _I_ believe him,” Potter spoke up unexpectedly. “I think that you should give Malfoy immediate and complete control of all aspects of this case. He’s the one most likely to uncover evidence that the rest of us won’t, simply because he knows all the free Death Eaters and how they think from years of exposure.”  
  
Draco stared at Potter warily. There surely must be consequences for this support.  
  
And there were. Potter sent him a sideways leer, and added brightly, “I’m the second most knowledgeable expert on Death Eaters. I suggest that Malfoy and I partner for however long it takes to bring all of them in.”  
  
“ _No_ ,” Draco said, putting all the denial, refusal, and utter conviction he was capable of mustering into that single word.  
  
But Scrimgeour, of course, because it was the way Draco’s life worked, was nodding thoughtfully. “I believe that an excellent suggestion, Auror Potter,” he said. “You can protect Mr. Malfoy—“  
  
(Even in the midst of the hell that his life had become, Draco took the time to note that Potter apparently merited the title he had worked for, while Draco was addressed as if he were a member of the general public).  
  
“And he can run his decisions on the Death Eater case past you, sharing information that might impact your safety with you as soon as possible.” Scrimgeour picked up the _Daily Prophet_ and tapped it on his desk to align the corners as if it were a sheaf of important paperwork. “Very well, gentlemen. I wish for you to travel to Aurora Westerling’s house as soon as possible, and learn what really happened there. Look for clues they might have left behind. Interview neighbors. Leave no stone unturned, even if it is a pebble.”  
  
 _If he could come up with less stupid metaphors, and if he could stop telling me how to do my job, I might like him more_ , Draco thought.  
  
Then Potter tried to take his hand again, and Draco had to forcefully slap his wrist.  
  
 _And if he hadn’t assigned me to work with Potter, of course.  
  
The Minister will receive certain…interesting…gifts from the Weasels’ joke shop this year._  
  
*  
  
Draco prided himself on his ability to work as an Auror. He was good at seeing small discrepancies—missing objects, unimportant twists of wording, and strange hesitations—which usually proved to be more reliable clues than what was _present_. He could put such emptiness together and make it produce something. Even the instructors who hadn’t liked him had commented on it when they were testing him for his fitness to become an Auror.   
  
He had to admit, grumpily, that Potter was better at _talking_ to people, though.  
  
Potter smiled at Westerling’s neighbors and turned his head to the side a bit, so they could get a glimpse of the famous scar through the fringe. That was all it took. Their faces blossomed with—Draco thought it was joy, to his intense disgust. Let them have Potter’s company all day, every day, and see how much _they_ liked it.  
  
Of course, that was the advantage of a celebrity for an ordinary witch or wizard, he thought, arms folded and mouth shut as Potter asked the most intrusive questions and was answered, eagerly. They assumed that famous people would remain distant from them, and when one _did_ appear, they were too thrilled to notice his rudeness. And then he would go away again, and they would probably treasure the experience for the rest of their lives.  
  
Potter even signed an autograph or two when asked, and let a few people admire his wand—“the wand that had killed You-Know-Who,” as the _Daily Prophet_ was fond of calling it. That made Draco blink. He had heard that Potter maintained his guard of Aurors partially so he wouldn’t ever need to do stupid favors like this for anyone.  
  
Maybe he could be good-natured about it when they weren’t around.  
  
Draco doubted it, though. It was probably part of Potter’s master plan to seduce him. Show Draco what a good little boy he could be, how nice, how accommodating, and he assumed Draco would melt like butter in a hot sun. After all, how could _anyone_ resist the charming Saint Potter?  
  
The wizards and witches of Hogsmeade couldn’t, that was for certain. But Draco was around Potter most days of the week, even if it was only passing him in the Ministry corridors and wishing he and his cronies were somewhere else. He _knew_ the man. Everything Potter might do in relation to Draco was false. A game to him, as he had said. Give him three days, and he would be interested in someone else and chasing him or her just as fiercely.  
  
That might bother Draco all it liked. Not that it did, of course. But he couldn’t change Potter, so what was the point of hoping that things might be different?  
  
Potter jogged back to him after an interview with a particularly giggly older witch, who looked at Potter as if she would have liked to drag him into her house and have her way with him. The git didn’t notice, of course. Or maybe he just took such attention as his due, Draco thought sourly. That was the most likely explanation. “She said that Westerling left for a holiday three days ago. No one was in the house when it was attacked.” Potter shrugged. “The others all agree on the same thing. So at least we have no casualties.” His smile flashed, and he leaned in, destroying the small amount of professionalism he’d begun to build up. “Shall we take advantage of the opportunity to isolate ourselves from public view, Draco?”  
  
“I don’t fuck in the field,” Draco replied coolly, and strode past Potter to examine the inside of the house. Incredibly, the broken windows and unhinged door appeared to be the only damage. There weren’t even any scorch marks on the walls. Draco frowned and began a long, slow examination. He couldn’t _really_ believe that the purpose of the attack had only been to leave the Dark Mark hovering over the house. Even if Westerling had been a secret supporter of the Dark Lord and this Prince wanted her to know he had found out—the most far-fetched explanation that had occurred to Draco—he would have been stupid to warn her he was moving ahead of time.  
  
“Ah,” said Potter from behind him, sounding incredibly pleased. “That must mean you fuck in the office instead. I _knew_ you couldn’t as snobbish as you looked!”  
  
Draco began to study the walls. He saw nothing unusual. Westerling appeared to have atrocious taste in portraits and photographs, but then, that didn’t surprise Draco. She would have been living somewhere other than Hogsmeade if she had _good_ taste.  
  
A hand clasped his shoulder. The warm shiver that traveled straight down his spine _did_ surprise him, but only until he remembered it had been six months since his last sexual encounter of any kind. He turned around, catching Potter’s wrist and squeezing it hard enough to draw a gasp of surprise out of the prat.   
  
“Don’t touch me,” he said, “unless you’d like me to cut off your fingers, shove them down your throat, and watch you choke to death.”  
  
“You make good threats,” Potter told him. His eyes were shining. Draco couldn’t make out all the emotions behind that shine, but was sure that one of them was amusement. “I _knew_ you could speak eloquently. See? You don’t have to curse to impress me, Draco.”  
  
The temptation to hit him was very strong. Draco knew no proper Malfoy solved a dispute with fists, the Muggle way. It was wands or hired muscle, who would not be degraded by using their fists.  
  
But it would have felt so _good._  
  
Draco flung Potter’s hand away and went back to his search. The man chattered behind him, saying further inane things, but this time Draco didn’t permit himself to hear them. Of course Potter whinged soon enough that there was nothing to find and they should return to the Ministry, but Draco went all the way around the house twice before he would admit to that. It was only the ordinary residence of an ordinary witch, and if the Death Eaters hadn’t broken her door and windows, Draco decided the most exciting thing happening here would have been the moment when she returned and unlocked it.  
  
Reluctantly, he left, taking a moment to study the door and windows closely so he could put the memory in a Pensieve later. It seemed as though this had been an attack by Prince to show the Death Eaters that the Dark Mark still had some power after all. Two Aurors going to investigate it, one Harry Potter himself, would just _prove_ that to people like Avery and Bellatrix. And Prince would use that confidence to urge them on to newer and better crimes.  
  
Of course, they couldn’t have left it uninvestigated, either. Draco just hated playing into his enemies’ hands.  
  
“What do you think, Draco?” Potter asked.  
  
Draco should have known better than to fall for the trap of the softly respectful tone in Potter’s voice, really he should have, but it sounded so reasonable that he answered before he thought about it. “I’m thinking that Prince is more clever than this. He could take vengeance on you by himself, if he wanted to. So he must want the Death Eaters for _something_. What, though? They can’t provide him with anything that he couldn’t get elsewhere.”  
  
Potter gave a long, pursed-lip sigh. “Not about _that_. What do you think about coming back to my house?”  
  
Draco waved him off and strode off to find an empty Apparition point. He was already planning his report in his head. He would suggest that at least a few Aurors be assigned to research Prince’s background. A powerful Dark wizard just didn’t appear from nowhere. He _had_ to have a provenance, and anyone strong who had vanished within the last few months could be a good candidate.  
  
And, in the meantime, he would make it an official recommendation that Potter have a guard of Aurors around him at all times.  
  
“You’re smiling,” Potter said quietly. “That’s good to see.”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes and took the fool’s arm for a Side-Along, since he couldn’t trust Potter to arrive at the same destination if he were left to manage his Apparition on his own. Potter leaned on him as if he were drunk and sniffed his neck. Draco controlled his shiver expertly and Apparated them away from Hogsmeade.


	3. Prince Plots and Plans

  
“Settle down.”  
  
The Death Eaters stopped their chattering the moment that Prince strode into the room, and turned eager faces towards him. Draco gritted his teeth behind his mask. It disturbed him that someone like Bellatrix, who had never shown obedience to anyone but the Dark Lord, could follow this man so automatically. It probably helped that he never showed his face and had obviously changed his voice and concealed his movements by magic—or else Draco _couldn’t_ have failed to recognize him, could he?—which allowed for the build-up of worship.  
  
But still. Prince had tamed the Death Eaters to his hand with hardly a gesture. Draco shuddered to think of what he could do if he had an army behind him.  
  
 _Come to think of it, did he really choose the Death Eaters just because he thought they hated Potter almost as much as he did? He could have a_ competent _army if he bothered to spend a little time building it up._  
  
Jugson’s diffident voice distracted him from the puzzle. “Did you cast the Dark Mark over the weekend, my lord?”  
  
Draco gagged, glad that his stomach was stronger than to allow him to vomit at that. _My lord, indeed! I sincerely hope the Dark Lord demanded the title and then enforced the punishment with Cruciatus until Jugson’s mind broke. He sounds like a bloody Muggle drooling over an aristocrat._  
  
Prince seemed to accept the title as his due, though, if the pleased way he pulled on his gloves was any indication. “Yes, I did,” he said. “I chose a house that I knew was uninhabited, because I do not think we should kill. _Yet._ ”  
  
He hissed out the last word, and all the Death Eaters leaned forwards, enthralled. Draco leaned with them, even though he felt like hitting his forehead very hard against the table until he blacked out. _For God’s sake. It’s just simple actor’s tricks. Bellatrix has used enough of them in her time, she ought to recognize them._  
  
Then again, his aunt seemed to have a weakness for them when they were used by powerful wizards who dressed all in black.  
  
“Why shouldn’t we?” Avery asked, because he was thick like that.  
  
Prince gave him a haughty look. All right, so his mask shut off most of his expression, but Draco recognized that particular tilt of the head from having used it himself, and it would have its effect on the uneducated plebeians surrounding them. “Because we wish to build up terror slowly,” he explained, as though to a child. “They are unsure of what we will do at the moment. I want to panic them. When wolves run after a flock, they do not simply show themselves and then charge. They skirt about, flaunting their strength, sending the sheep into different dodges. Inevitably, the weakest members are exposed when that happens.”  
  
 _Those are_ my _sheep_ , Draco thought. _Potter in particular might be annoying, but you don’t have the right to slaughter them._  
  
Uncannily, Prince seemed to sense his thoughts and turned to look straight at him. “Mr. Malfoy, did you have something to add?”  
  
“I don’t, my lord,” Draco said, and promised himself a good Firewhiskey later for being forced to speak the title now. “Just that I think it risky to show our strength before we’re ready to move. I enjoyed the terror in the Ministry, but I must admit, was the danger worth the gain?”  
  
That made Rodolphus cluck his tongue anxiously, and Dolohov turn around, his suspicious gaze settling on Prince. Draco waited for a moment to see how Prince would respond. If he believed his own rhetoric, then maybe—  
  
Prince only laughed, his voice rich with scorn. Draco felt his hands clenching beneath the table. _He’s damn smart, whoever he is. I could wish that he weren’t so smart, or at least that fate hadn’t taken my amusement with the Death Eaters as a challenge._  
  
“There was another part of my strategy, which I did not intend to explain yet,” said Prince. “But as young Mr. Malfoy has divined it, I shall. Never let it be said that I will treat my fellows as lesser than me when they have proven to be my equals in cleverness.”  
  
That made Bellatrix preen and Draco fight to keep from baring his teeth. Prince’s eyes were on his face. He was certain the gesture, slight as it was, would be noticed.  
  
“They think us mostly harmless, now that they have recovered from their terror,” said Prince softly. “They will have another few days before they begin fearing again. To hasten that time, I suggest we kill Potter, _now_ , and take their symbol of hope away from them. Their terror of us will increase tenfold.”  
  
It seemed that only Draco noticed this was actually a contradiction with the strategy that Prince had been proposing before. Pleased nods came from all around the table. Draco, for his part, had to picture those annoying green eyes closed forever, those talented hands limp. He shook his head.  
  
 _It’s hard to breathe. I never noticed how close this room was before._  
  
“We’ll do it with a simple plan,” Prince was saying. “I happen to know that Mr. Potter is planning to attend a private birthday celebration at a small pub tomorrow, without his bodyguard of Aurors. I need people who won’t be recognized on sight, who can safely blend into the crowd at the pub and attack him when the time seems right.”  
  
“What about me, my lord?” Draco asked, striving for the right mixture of pride and humility in his words. “I’m sure that he won’t mistrust me. I’m a fellow Auror, and he’s been throwing himself at me rather hard.”  
  
“A good suggestion, Mr. Malfoy, but no.”  
  
 _Damn._  
  
“We need you to stay in the Ministry and play at being loyal, still, so that we can use you later.” Prince’s eyes traveled around the room. “Similarly, you’re out, Bellatrix, because you’re too recognizable.” He paused for a thoughtful movement, and Draco could almost feel him rejecting Dolohov, for the same reason that Draco would have: the old Death Eater was too jumpy to actually fire curses at only his designated target.  
  
 _I hate that he thinks like me. I mean, I have to admire him if I don’t want to despise myself, and this is uncomfortable._  
  
“Jugson and Avery,” said Prince at last. “I still hear rumors that you weren’t actually Death Eaters. I think you won’t be recognized until it’s too late.”  
  
Jugson and Avery both beamed. Draco narrowed his eyes. It was true that Avery wasn’t the brightest charm in the wand, but he _was_ unknown, and sending Jugson with him would guarantee that he did as well as he could in the circumstances.  
  
 _It seems as though he’s making the best he can of poor tools. But I don’t know why he should have to make use of poor tools at all. He could easily enough find other people to follow him. Why—_  
  
“Malfoy.”  
  
He looked up at Prince, aware that this was the first time he had been addressed by his last name alone. He thought he could see the eyes narrowed behind the white mask. He blinked and did his best to look innocent, while meeting the gaze and hoping that Prince wasn’t a Legilimens like Severus had been.  
  
“Do you have any objections to this?” Prince asked coolly. “Since you said that you wanted to be in at the kill, I would be sure.”  
  
 _With a chance to expose my disloyalty in front of everyone if I object_. Draco simply shrugged, though. He wasn’t really worried about being exposed, or not any more than he had been during the years he attended the meetings. “I’ll do what you command, my lord,” he said. “And Potter’s been flirting with me like a madman. At least his death will relieve me of _that_ distraction.”  
  
From the way the corners of Prince’s mouth moved, Draco was sure he was smirking. He nodded and turned away, to answer Bellatrix’s question.  
  
“And after we kill Potter,” she asked, with a breathlessness in the back of her voice, “what then?”  
  
Prince began spinning another of his tales about how they would achieve fame and wealth and glory and, yes, even immortality. He sounded saner than the Dark Lord, but possessed of the same ambitions. Draco folded his hands behind his head and listened with half an ear, to make sure that Prince said nothing truly dangerous.  
  
He might not have been worried ordinarily. But Potter refused to prepare himself for the threat, and he would be in the pub without trained bodyguards. So there was still the chance that he might die, or that someone else near him might be injured.  
  
So. The only _possible_ choice was for Draco to take advantage of the goods blatantly on offer and ensure that he’d be at the pub, too, though with his objections noted.  
  
He grimaced. _Potter is never going to let me hear the end of this._  
  
*  
  
From the look of things, he would be too delighted to let it rest.  
  
“You _want_ to go on a date with me?” he cooed at Draco, his eyelashes practically fluttering. “I _knew_ I would wear you down. Come, tell me. Was it my dashing good looks that won you over? Or my casual touches, perfectly timed to make you long without fulfilling the longing? Or my prowess with a wand?”  
  
He winked so lewdly at that last insinuation that Draco was surprised his hair didn’t catch fire from the sheer amount of lust he probably had in his body. Not that Draco’s own face wasn’t flushed, but that was because _he_ had a sense of shame.  
  
Face stiff, he answered, “Why do you want to know? So that you can go and flirt with someone else while I’m there?” With an effort, he managed to sound jealous.  
  
Potter sidled nearer to him, which made Draco lock his muscles in an effort to keep from flinching away. They were in the center of a fairly public corridor in the Ministry, and—well, such things just weren’t _done_ with the manners Draco was used to. Potter’s fingers slid along Draco’s shoulder and down towards his wrist. How he managed to keep from swatting them away, Draco didn’t know.   
  
And yes, they raised gooseflesh in their wake. Of course they did. That didn’t mean he had to admit he enjoyed the touch, it was just a natural physical reaction.  
  
“Once I have you, Draco,” Potter said, when he had Draco’s attention absolutely focused on him, “I’ll have everything, and every _one_ , I want.” His eyes rose and locked Draco’s in a gaze of such intensity that he began shivering convulsively. “I don’t intend to flirt with anyone else. You’ll be the only one I show my looks to, the only one I touch, the only one who receives any benefit from my prowess with a wand.”  
  
His voice was strong and sensual. Draco felt his mouth dry out with want, and swiftly jerked his head so that he looked away, disgusted with himself for having fallen for Potter’s ploy even momentarily.  
  
 _This is a game, remember? The only reason why he chased you so hard is that you showed you were concerned about something other than him. Watch him tonight; he won’t touch you because you’re there, and he’ll flirt with someone else who seems unattainable._  
  
“You’re too much of a playboy to keep to one bed, Potter,” he said. “I’ve heard stories about you.”  
  
“You might consider paying attention to the sexual aspects of those stories, you know,” Potter said in his normal tone, leaning away from Draco. “Just because it might not be forever doesn’t mean we can’t have a good time.”  
  
Draco found himself considering it, for one devastating moment—  
  
And then he shoved the notion away from himself hard enough that he hoped it would break apart entirely.  
  
 _This is necessary to get me close to Potter for the evening, but it won’t be forever. It can’t. Even he says it can’t. See?_  
  
“You wish, Potter,” he said, and managed to give the other man a melting look. “Because, if you had paid attention to the stories about _me_ , you would know exactly how far you have to go to compete.”  
  
Really, Potter’s dropped jaw was very gratifying. Draco wished this was a regular part of his job—  
  
And then he told himself, firmly, that no, he didn’t.  
  
*  
  
So there he was, in a noisy, smelly, disgusting pub that seemed to be frequented mostly by retired Quidditch players, nursing a drink and with a plausible story to tell Prince if he asked: that Potter had badgered and hounded him to attend this party until Draco had said yes just to get some peace.  
  
And it would have been simple enough to keep an eye out for Avery and Jugson and compose the story he would tell Prince in his head, if only Potter had behaved as Draco had been certain he would. He should have flirted with other people and laughed in Draco’s face if he pouted about it.  
  
Instead, he was paying attention to Draco—so much so that Draco was worried Jugson and Avery could stroll up to them and he wouldn’t notice.  
  
Potter was talking softly to Draco, though he would turn around and address one of his other friends vaguely if they asked, including the acquaintance whose birthday they were nominally here to celebrate. But he would always turn back to Draco, and his hand would reach out and land on his elbow, as though he needed to be reassured that Draco hadn’t vanished in the meantime. The fingers would rub in small, caressing circles, while his eyes grew darker and deeper, and Draco’s breath caught in his lungs.  
  
And then he would say something inane, usually to talk about how clever and admirable and wonderful he was, and Draco would wonder whether Potter had two personalities taking over from each other at unpredictable moments.  
  
The “highlight” of the evening, if one could call it that, arrived when Potter had just become tipsy and the friend called for him to make a toast. Draco imagined the man had some praise of himself and his old Quidditch victories in mind, but instead Potter rose to his feet and hauled Draco right up along with him.  
  
Draco flushed at the eyes that focused on him. He hadn’t realized how many tables the pub had, or how his hair would flash and shine in the light of the torches. He stared at his hands, until Potter caught his chin and tilted his face up. His smile was unexpectedly sweet, even as he called out in a loud, drunken voice, “To my date, Draco Malfoy, who’s finally seen the good sense of preferring me before anyone else!”  
  
A loud laugh exploded from all corners of the pub, and then Potter leaned closer, and his lips fastened on Draco’s.  
  
Draco’s gasp wasn’t audible to anyone else—at least, he fervently hoped not—but it didn’t need to be audible to do damage. Potter’s tongue swept in, found his, and collided with it. Draco was hit with a blast of heat that might only have been Potter’s breath, but didn’t feel like anything so normal and natural. His gut tightened. He heard himself make a helpless whimpering noise, and his left hand rose to cup Potter’s cheek, wanting to draw him close and draw out the kiss at the same time.  
  
Then Potter yanked back and yelled to the pub at large, hoisting his drink above his head, “Can I kiss or _can I kiss_?”  
  
Potter’s friends laughed, and several people cheered. Draco, his cheeks burning, reckoned that they must have seen him like this with men and women before—or maybe they just thought he was pissed and were tolerant of him because of that.  
  
He really couldn’t be tolerant. He was caught between acidic jealousy of everyone else Potter had kissed like that, and cold self-hatred that he’d allowed it to happen.  
  
He sat down, drawing his drink towards him and burying his flushed face in his hands, scrubbing fiercely at his cheeks as if that could take the red color away. Potter flung himself into the chair across from him, and answered some burst of rude talk with a loud laugh. His waved drink slopped liquid into his hair.  
  
Draco conjured up an image of Potter waking in the morning, his hair soaked and his face running with dribbles of alcohol and spit. He’d get up, stagger over his discarded clothes, and make his way into the loo to vomit.  
  
 _There_. That picture should kill any inappropriate stirrings of lust that Draco felt. And if he had to feel even worse for a while about being attracted to such a complete lout, well, everyone did stupid things sometimes. He would recover.  
  
“Aw, come on, Draco.”  
  
He looked up, startled, as Potter’s hand came to rest over his. The green eyes could barely focus. Draco bared his teeth, not sure whether his disdain for Potter or for himself was stronger at the moment.  
  
“Don’t be like that,” Potter coaxed him. “It was just a kiss between friends, wasn’t it? You don’t need to act like it’s the end of the world that I couldn’t give you a perfect kiss, with my breath stinking and all.”  
  
“That’s not why I’m upset,” Draco hissed. “I mean—I’m not upset. I just don’t want you to _embarrass_ me in front of everyone else.”  
  
“You embarrassed _me_ , not the other way around,” Potter muttered, and then took a long swill of his Firewhiskey.  
  
Draco narrowed his eyes in confusion. That had sounded almost like a compliment. But then he translated it from Potter-speech into his own terms, and nodded grimly. Potter had just said that Draco’s reaction wasn’t worthy of someone who had been lucky enough to date the Savior of the Wizarding World.  
  
“Farewell,” he said, and pushed his chair back. It was almost midnight. If Jugson and Avery hadn’t shown, they had probably backed out, or maybe Prince had made some other plan with them, out of Draco’s hearing. “I _do_ hope that you can find someone else who manages to Apparate you home without Splinching you, since I’m not doing it.”  
  
“ _Draco_ ,” Potter whinged pathetically, and clutched at his arm with crawling fingers. Draco slapped his hand, trying to detach it.  
  
And, just then, Jugson attacked.  
  
Draco nearly didn’t see him; he had come close with such a slow gait that it implied patience, and patience had always been the one thing he was most incapable of. Then he whipped his cloak off and drew his wand. Several people turned around to stare, but no one had any reason to think he was attacking Potter. Some of the idiots even clapped, as if they thought they were about to see a show.  
  
Draco was the one who had to move sideways and drop to a crouch, so he could be ready when the first curse came in.  
  
“Oh, a duel!” Potter shouted, sounding pleased.   
  
Jugson’s face was murderous when he screamed out the first Blasting Curse. Draco intended to raise a Shield Charm that would deflect it. Then he could tie Jugson up, scan the room for Avery—or just use his wand to point the way—and get rid of him, too. All very nice, all very neat.  
  
And then Potter, the idiot, the bumbling oaf who evidently thought he was in a dueling class at Hogwarts, _leaped around Draco and in front of Jugson’s Blasting Curse._  
  
He was laughing. His hand traveled so fast that Draco couldn’t even make out the spell which both defeated the Blasting Curse and attacked Jugson; it only manifested as a web of bluish-green light. Jugson’s eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed as vines grew out of the floor and wrapped around his legs and arms. Potter laughed again and pranced lightly on his feet as he turned around.  
  
“What do you think of _that_?” he yelled cheerfully at Draco. “I told you that I had some prowess with a wand!”  
  
Draco had to force him flat to the floor as the red light of a Blood-Boiling Curse passed overhead. Avery screamed in frustration, and Draco knew the git had revealed himself. He just had to roll over, and—  
  
And Potter was lifting his hips towards Draco with an obvious bulge in his trousers, and a moan of, “I _want_ to, Draco, but I don’t think this is really the time or place, do you?”  
  
Draco jerked back, feeling as though he’d been slapped, and Potter rose up and fired a neat hex in Avery’s direction. Judging by the sound, it caught the edge of a table instead of Avery. People were finally starting to scream and drag their alcohol-sodden bodies out of the way. Draco fervently hoped they would be able to keep the casualties to a minimum.  
  
Avery had ducked beneath the splintered table, and now came up in a charge, roaring like a bear. His wand flashed out several nonverbal curses, any of which would kill Potter if they hit.  
  
All of which he countered, laughing like a maniac all the while. He must think this was something arranged for his personal entertainment, Draco thought. Red light met smoke rings. Blue light met Shield Charms. A yellow blast Draco didn’t know collided with a glassy charm he didn’t know and faded to nothingness.  
  
And then Potter conjured a long chain that he launched straight into the middle of Avery’s chest, winding him. He went down heavily, and Potter bound him with vines like he’d done with Jugson. Draco caught his breath and swallowed several times, hardly daring to believe it was over and that no one but the Death Eaters had been wounded.  
  
Potter turned around.  
  
His face was filled with a savage delight, and he stamped in the middle of the crowded room and the cries of frightened people like some beautiful male animal—a stag or a bull, Draco thought hazily, tossing his horns at the competition.  
  
He averted his gaze swiftly. The Firewhiskey had clouded his judgment, obviously. He waved his wand, and Jugson rose in the air.  
  
“Don’t think you can claim credit for all of this, Draco,” Potter said. “You _did_ make the evening more enjoyable, but _I_ was the one who captured them.” He came close enough to see Jugson’s face then, and whistled under his breath. “Former Death Eaters, no less!”  
  
Draco nodded stiffly. He was wondering what Prince would say when he heard that two of his people had been captured, but almost worse were his own unwanted thoughts about and reactions to Potter.  
  
And then a hand rested on his back, burning through the cloth, and Potter stared at him, eyes dark, challenging, beckoning.  
  
Draco jerked his head aside again. “The Minister will have a fit if we don’t get them to him as soon as possible,” he said.  
  
Potter sighed. “So much for my night off.”  
  
 _Good_ , Draco thought. _Be the person I hate. Please. You confound my expectations so much anyway, you could at least do this one small thing for me._  
  
The hand left his back, and the darkened eyes turned away, and as Potter laughed again and bowed to his admiring public, Draco was reminded that this was all just a game, as he always said and Potter always agreed. Just a game.   
  
One he did not intend to let Potter win.


	4. Prince's Mighty Attempt

  
“So Jugson and Avery were _arrested_?” Rodolphus gave a pathetic little gulp immediately afterwards, and then flinched, as if he thought Aurors would break down the door any moment and drag his arse away to Azkaban.  
  
“Yes,” Draco confirmed, and shifted in annoyance. Today had been oddly hot, and there was sweat rolling down behind his mask and collecting in the corners of his dark robe. He wished, not for the first time, that the Death Eaters hadn’t kept up the costume choices the Dark Lord introduced. They all knew each other’s names and faces anyway, so why should it matter what they wore? “I was there. I saw it.”  
  
“Why were you there, when our Lord told you to keep away?” Dolohov leaned triumphantly forwards, fingers twitching over his wand as if he were having a stroke, his voice eager as a hound’s.  
  
Draco rolled his eyes, not caring if that was visible or not. “Because Potter pressured me into going along,” he snapped. “I thought that I might be able to aid Jugson and Avery if I were there. Stupid me. I had forgotten how well Potter fought.”  
  
 _Yes, even drunk_ , said a small and suspicious voice in the back of his head, which Draco had been listening to more and more often since he watched Potter carried triumphantly into the Ministry on the shoulders of his drinking buddies. He had tried to insist that Draco should be honored, too, but Draco had been content to trail behind and observe. Potter certainly flushed and burbled as if he was drunk, but his words didn’t slur, and his actions in the pub, everything from the kiss to sending the chain into Avery’s chest, seemed too precise.  
  
On the other hand, Draco had not the slightest idea what he would gain from the pretense. It was not as though so many enemies were lurking to attack Potter that he would regularly pretend to be inebriated, just to fool them.  
  
“I believe Mr. Malfoy’s story.”  
  
Draco turned with a start, for a moment thinking that Prince must be Scrimgeour, so similar was the way he said Draco’s name to the way the Minister did. But Prince walked to the front of the room with an air of calm command Draco had never seen in the Minister, and folded his hands, staring down his nose at the Death Eaters, who scrambled into place.  
  
“Two of our number are gone,” Prince said. “They sacrificed themselves bravely for the duty of taking down a man all of us have reason to hate. I have another plan, one that will result in fewer sacrifices.”  
  
“Really,” Draco muttered, not thinking anyone could hear him. Prince cast him a swift glance, but didn’t draw attention to Draco’s slip, if he had ever intended to. He just shrugged and turned to face Rodolphus and Dolohov.  
  
“ _This_ plan calls for some more initiative and strength,” he said. “Malfoy will remain in place as our spy at the Ministry, and pass along information on the next time that Potter can be found alone. When that time comes, no matter where you are or what you’re doing at the time, I want you to Apparate to him and kill him.”  
  
“But how will we do that?” Rodolphus asked. He could be cautious, even cunning, where his own skin was concerned. “What if he’s in a location protected by anti-Apparition wards or surrounded by his bodyguards? My lord,” he added hastily, when Prince gave him a remote, cool gaze through the eyeholes in his mask.  
  
“I have the solution to that,” said Prince, and pulled something out of his robe pocket. Draco squinted, but he could see only brilliant, sparkling chips, painful to look at, like glass windows flashing on a sunny day. “Do you actually think that I would send you into battle unprepared?”  
  
Yes, Draco thought, and then hoped again the bastard wasn’t a Legilimens. He watched carefully as Prince held out the objects to Rodolphus and Dolohov. Potter’s life would probably depend on what Draco learned now, since he didn’t have the sense to protect himself, and his enormous tribe of bodyguards didn’t go into his bedroom with him or on missions where he and Draco partnered.  
  
“These are rings enchanted to focus on Potter’s body heat,” Prince explained. “Each is twined with a single strand of his hair—“  
  
“How did you get these, my lord?” Draco interrupted. It would probably sound petulant, and it was reckless in that Prince could punish him for speaking out of turn, but he _had_ to know. Prince had some contact close to Potter, that was obvious, to know his plans for going to the pub and now getting this.  
  
Prince snorted at him. “Not all his bodyguards are incorruptible, Mr. Malfoy. One of them is infatuated with me and provided me access to Potter’s home and hairbrush.”  
  
“Then why not kill him right then?” Draco demanded. “Sir, we have the opportunity to rid ourselves of Potter, _finally_. Why are we playing games?”  
  
“Because it must be a _public death_!”  
  
Draco flinched back from Prince’s shout, realizing that he had not known how much the man hated Potter before now. Prince was gripping the sides of the table, the outline of the ring under one glove standing out visibly, his breath gusting hot and slightly sour across Draco’s face as he ranted.  
  
“He engineered my _public_ downfall and humiliation! He laughed at me when I came to him for help, saying that I should have thought of the consequences of my actions before I performed them! He deserves nothing more than to suffer the same himself, and dying in his bed privately _is not enough_! I want the whole wizarding world to see the fear and the humiliation on his face before we _destroy_ him!”  
  
Draco winced. There were trickles of spittle on his face to join with the sweat now, and he wasn’t sure which was more disgusting.  
  
“You should understand, Draco,” Bellatrix joined in, her croaking voice a surprise. “After all, you have almost as much reason to hate Potter as our lord does. He was your enemy throughout your schooling, and you admitted that he’s been embarrassing you more and more often at work.”  
  
Draco glared at her. She was giving him a lopsided smile, not seeing to realize what she had just done: given Prince something to be suspicious about.  
  
“Yes,” said Prince, his voice slow and thoughtful. “Why are you arguing and whinging about destroying Potter, Mr. Malfoy? I thought you would rejoice at anything that would kill him without requiring you to get in the way and risk your own hide.”  
  
Draco had to act very fast, now. He allowed his eyes to fall, and studied the pattern of carvings and glamours on the tabletop until Prince shifted impatiently and took a deep breath. Then he began to speak, rendering his voice so small that all the others had to lean in and listen hard if they wanted to hear it.  
  
“I—I reckon that—that I never realized how much of my life _revolves_ around him,” he whispered. “He’s always been there. He was always taunting me, always defeating me in Quidditch, always showing that he was better than me. He even made an attempt to rescue me when I didn’t need rescuing.” Draco didn’t need to feign the venom in his voice this time. Potter had rescued him during the war with the same careless ease that he had done everything. Draco’s half-nurtured daydreams that this would become something more had faded when he realized he was nothing more or less than another charity case for Potter, certainly not someone who stood out in his mind. “When I went into the Ministry, there he was. I had expected him, even though I didn’t know for certain he would become an Auror. It just—won’t be the same without him, I reckon. And I want to be there when he dies.” _So I can save his life, the ungrateful prat_. “So that I can reconcile myself to knowing he’s really gone.”  
  
There was a long, thoughtful silence when that was done. Draco scowled at his hands like the child he had just portrayed and didn’t dare lift his eyes to Prince’s face yet. He had to make his act seem real.  
  
And never betray how much of it was real, of course. Never show how much the yearning ran through him like blood when Potter glanced in his direction. Never show how disappointing it was that Potter had turned out the way he had, the idiot hero reveling in his heroism instead of the man that Draco would have been proud to call friend.  
  
 _And lover, even._  
  
Draco shoved at the thought, but it was big and solid and didn’t seem to be going anywhere, so, reluctantly, he let it stay. Potter was attractive, there was no denying that. And Draco had felt the almost magnetic pull behind the kiss the other night. It was almost a pity that Potter’s personality was too obnoxious to ever let it happen.  
  
“Well,” said Prince at last, his voice so soft and thoughtful that Draco glanced up at him warily from beneath his fringe. But the man was staring at the two rings in his hand, not at Draco. He gave a slight nod, as though listening to someone else’s voice, and then took out his wand and waved it over the rings. Draco squinted, but the room was too dim—damn Jugson and his torches, anyway—to make out what kind of wood the wand was made of. He could only see that it was dark.  
  
“I’ve altered the rings,” Prince said, and then handed one to Dolohov and one to Rodolphus with a solemn expression. “They’ll bring you to Potter’s side when he’s alone or when only Mr. Malfoy is with him.” He gave Draco a little nod. “Hearing that speech, almost as strong as my own, has convinced me that we should let Mr. Malfoy be present to watch Potter die, and realize that he doesn’t control his life. He can never control _anyone’s_ life, unless the fool is stupid enough to believe him a ‘good’ person, as so many of those he saved in the war do.”  
  
Draco bowed his head. It was the most he could get, he knew.  
  
And, in the meantime, he might have a little extra time to search through records at the Ministry and discover strong enemies Potter had overthrown but who currently weren’t in Azkaban. There had to be a clue to Prince’s identity _somewhere_.  
  
*  
  
“Draco!”  
  
Potter burst into his office so suddenly that Draco started and dropped the inkwell he was holding on the floor. He cursed as it broke and black liquid leaked everywhere. Someone else would probably follow Potter into the office in a moment and comment snidely, later, on how Malfoy couldn’t even keep his own space clean.  
  
“What do you want, Potter?” he asked, striving for a tone of bored disdain as he Vanished the ink and repaired the bottle. Then he glanced back at his list of possible names for Prince, and shook his head a little. From the grip Potter had taken on his arm, he wasn’t going to get back to it any time soon.  
  
“There’s been Death Eater activity noted in Wiltshire, and—“  
  
Potter stopped speaking. Draco glanced at him, curious, and not because he wanted to look at those green eyes and that messy dark hair. Of course not. Potter was likely to ruin the portrait that he made by being obnoxious in a moment, anyway.  
  
“You’re looking up the bastards I pulled down after the war?” Potter asked, his voice softer than Draco had ever heard it. “Why?”  
  
Draco felt a sudden surge of hope. Potter had recognized the names, and just from one quick glimpse. Maybe he was smarter than he acted, or just in a serious mood right now. Maybe Draco could tell him about Prince, and he would listen, and then give Draco a clue that would enable him to track down and stop Prince in time.  
  
“You’re studying them,” said Potter, before Draco could get a word in edgewise. “You’re studying _me_.”  
  
And he turned around with a growing smile and smoldering eyes, and lifted a hand to cup Draco’s cheek. “If you ever want to hear about those battles,” he purred, “you can hear them in _all_ the detail you’d like. But none of them was ever half so grand as the battle to win your heart, you know.” He leaned nearer, his stubble and his breath combining to make Draco shut his eyes for a moment before he remembered where they were.  
  
He shoved Potter away from him. “This is serious, you prat!” he snapped. “The new leader of the Death Eaters—“  
  
“Yes, there was Death Eater activity in Wiltshire,” Potter said, as if Draco was answering a question. “And we must away, my gallant and faithful companion.” He seized Draco’s arm and dragged him effortlessly out of the office. “Or, at least, indescribably gallant. I don’t know about faithful. Have you been whoring yourself out to office sluts, Draco?”  
  
“Potter, I swear to _God_ —“ Draco yanked hard, but his arm remained imprisoned in Potter’s grasp. “ _Let me go_!”  
  
“No need to be so dramatic, Draco, honestly,” Potter said. “It was just a question about how clean you were. I like to know how many protective charms I’m going to have to cast before I have sex with someone, that’s all.” He paused thoughtfully, at least in words; he hadn’t ceased to haul Draco along. “But on the other hand, you’re so cold to _me_ that I’m certain you can’t have slept with many people.”  
  
Draco decided he didn’t care that they were in the Ministry, or how many people were watching. He was going to hex Potter. As soon as he could get his right hand out of his grasp and on his wand, at least.  
  
He cursed himself a moment later, because he hadn’t paid attention to their progress, and now Potter stuffed him head-first into a Floo connection. Draco struggled, shouting, thinking that he might at least manage to get back to the Ministry if he called out the right destination, but Potter stepped in beside him and wrapped his arms around his waist, and they were whirled away.  
  
*  
  
Draco came out of the fireplace as angry as a wet cat, and whipped about, his hand on his wand. Potter popped out beside him, beaming, and then drew his own wand.  
  
“Oh, I see,” he said. “A little dueling as foreplay first. You do seem to be fond of that, even though you ran away from me after that Death Eater attack before I could persuade you to come to bed.”  
  
“I won’t _have_ it,” Draco snarled. He knew his face was dangerously near to purple, and he was aware that they were standing in a dusty, badly-furnished room that no Malfoy should be seen in. But at the moment, nothing mattered so much as impressing Potter with the seriousness of his hatred. Prince had the right idea, after all. “You’ve treated me like your own personal whore for weeks now, Potter, and I _hate_ it.”  
  
Potter grinned. “You’re so cute when you’re angry. All you need is for your hair to stand on end and you’d look exactly like a kitten confronting a big dog.”  
  
Draco screamed and launched a hex at him. He could never remember later which one he chose—something to do with large, bleeding sores on the groin, perhaps. But Potter countered it, and then they were moving opposite each other, raging around the room, Draco hurling jinxes and curses just on the edge of Dark Arts, Potter deflecting them easily and laughing merrily all the while, as if this were a game.  
  
 _To him, it is_ , Draco remembered bitterly. He wondered how he could end the contest and walk away, gathering up the tattered scraps of his dignity, without having Potter hex him in return.  
  
Then he realized Potter hadn’t fired one single spell at him. He’d used Shield Charms and _Finite Incantantem_ and a variety of complicated protections Draco had never seen before, but he seemed content to watch Draco react to him.  
  
Draco dropped his wand to test his theory. Potter stopped moving to watch him, his eyes bright and his breath rapid. The flush in his cheeks and the mussed hair only rendered him more handsome, but Draco turned his back before that could affect him.  
  
“I don’t want what you’re offering me,” Draco told him plainly. “You’ll never bed me. You’ll never make me love you.”  
  
“Oh,” said Potter, and his voice turned soft, “I knew that.”  
  
Draco stared at him in silence. The green eyes watched him calmly now, with laughter burned out in them. And then Potter shook his head and slipped his wand back up his sleeve, turning away from Draco.  
  
“That was never what this was about,” he added over his shoulder.  
  
Draco started forwards, intent on getting some _answers_ this time. If he had been able to make Potter stop tormenting him for one moment, then he ought to be able to force him to provide some answers, too.  
  
And then two loud _pops_ sounded from across the room, and Draco was reminded of what Prince had said the rings he had given Rodolphus and Dolohov would do, the moment Potter was alone—or alone with Draco.  
  
He swung around, his wand already in position, and then checked himself sharply as he remembered that fighting the Death Eaters would make him look suspicious to them. Dolohov was already covering him, anyway. Rodolphus had started forwards, his body quivering with eagerness. Potter had been responsible for the death of his brother, Draco remembered. Or at least he’d done something that meant Rabastan didn’t survive to go to trial.  
  
“Good work, Malfoy,” Rodolphus said. “We have him just where we want him, now.”  
  
Draco took another quick look around the room. Potter had brought him into what looked like a deserted house, except what deserted house would have a bowl of Floo powder on the mantle? The furniture was broken, the walls were heavy with dust, the door that led outside was shut and barred and too far away for them to dash through in any case—  
  
And Potter was facing his two enemies with a calm, resolute expression, his hand on his wand. But he hadn’t lifted it yet, and he didn’t seem inclined to dodge, as if he believed this would be as simple as winning a staring contest.  
  
“Potter,” Draco hissed, and hoped the others would take it for an exclamation of hatred and not the warning it was.  
  
Potter’s mouth quirked into a smile, but he didn’t reply. Dolohov had apparently given up suspecting Draco of treachery in favor of stalking Potter. He walked straight past Draco, drawing in great rasping breaths. A cloud of dark purple light that promised no one any good had formed at the end of his wand.  
  
“Potter,” Draco said again. The other wizard still didn’t respond, other than a slight tilt of the head to show he was listening.  
  
The moment was perfect, hanging, balanced. Rodolphus or Dolohov, or both of them at once, would grow tired of the silence at any moment and strike. And Potter just stood there as if he were already wounded or dying and couldn’t stop them.  
  
Draco ground his teeth together. It seemed that it was his responsibility, after all, to defend Potter. And he had to do it in such a way that neither Death Eater could escape, because then Draco’s life would be worth less than nothing to Prince.  
  
Once more, he snapped a quick glance around. Barred door. Single bowl of Floo powder, which had to remain unharmed so he and Potter could leave. Broken furniture. Dust on the walls.  
  
 _Dust on the walls.  
  
“Procellae pulvis_!” he roared.  
  
A screaming gale rose around him, a tight cone of traveling wind that whipped out like the seeking tendrils of a carnivorous plant. In moments, the dust was off the walls and being herded around Rodolphus and Dolohov in blinding spirals. They coughed and choked and tried to cast, but dust was in their lungs. They aimed random nonverbal curses, but Rodolphus cried out in pain a moment later, and Draco knew that Dolohov must have hit him instead.  
  
He moved towards Potter, intent on dragging him out of the storm and to safety, only to stop when he heard Potter’s voice calling out a spell to clear the air in front of him, and then _Expelliarmus_ , twice, to disarm the Death Eaters. His words were strong and steady. When Draco could catch a glimpse of him through the thick golden-brown air, he saw Potter moving his wand as if he hadn’t ever frozen and let his enemies approach him for no good reason.  
  
Dolohov tried to surge forwards and attack Potter. But he tripped over Rodolphus, and then tried to pummel and kick him, apparently thinking that this was Potter, despite Rodolphus’s shouts for him to stop. Potter gave a sigh that sounded almost bored to Draco and Stupefied them both, then came forwards to stoop over them.  
  
Draco ended the storm, frowning. Potter had brown hair, now, from the thick coating of dust it had received. His face was streaked with visible sweat trails. He glanced at Draco, and Draco jerked his head and looked away. Merlin, how could Potter be good-looking even through _that_?  
  
“Good thinking,” Potter said, and then he launched himself at Draco.  
  
Draco lifted his wand, ready to fend off a curse or an attack, but Potter simply wrapped his arms around his waist and kissed him soundly on the cheek.   
  
“My hero!” he proclaimed loudly. “I froze and didn’t know what to do—terror takes me like that sometimes—but you came up with a clever spell that saved us both! And you were so heroic, wanting to rescue me instead of just taking the Floo powder and running out of the room yourself! That ought to put paid to rumors of your cowardice at the Ministry! Just wait until I tell them!” He pulled away, his eyes dancing.  
  
“Potter—“ Draco began, and then stopped. Now it seemed as if Potter had skipped to outright lying about things other than his attraction to Draco, which was even more inexplicable and infuriating. Draco shook his head and tried again. “You didn’t freeze up. I saw you. You were _waiting_ for them to attack.”  
  
“I froze up,” Potter disagreed, folding his arms and pouting at Draco like a petulant child. “I’m not as much of a hero as everyone thinks I am. But you’re as much of a hero as I always thought you were.”  
  
“No one is going to believe you,” Draco said flatly.  
  
“Yes, they will.” Potter floated both Dolohov and Rodolphus into the air and beamed angelically at Draco. “Because that’s what happened.”  
  
“You and your bloody games.”   
  
“Oh, yes,” Potter said. “It _is_ a game.” He winked and went to throw more Floo powder on the small flames in the fireplace.  
  
“Wait,” Draco said suddenly, remembering what had brought them here in the first place. “Death Eater activity in Wiltshire—“  
  
“Oh.” Potter paused and looked back at him with large, innocent eyes. “There wasn’t any, actually. I just wanted to get you here so we could kiss.”  
  
“ _Potter_!”  
  
But the flames had turned green, and Potter shouted, “Auror Department, Ministry!” before he vanished with their captives.  
  
Draco tore after him, grimly determined that he would get _answers_ , this time.


	5. An Odd Caution

  
No matter how hard he ran, Draco couldn’t seem to catch up with Potter. The man kept ghosting ahead of him, now down one corridor, now down another, their captives hovering behind him. Now and then he’d speak a friendly greeting to someone else, but he never slowed down long enough to have a conversation. Draco swore under his breath and increased his pace, not caring how undignified he looked.  
  
“Mr. Malfoy!”  
  
 _Oh, shit._  
  
Scrimgeour had just come around the corner of a corridor Draco had thought for certain was deserted, and stood there, looking shocked. Behind him were two Aurors, several secretaries, and a few wizards and witches with cameras. _Daily Prophet_ reporters; Draco dimly remembered a memo about several members of the press being shown around the Ministry so they could observe the recent changes the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had made.  
  
And now he had been caught in front of those visitors, running like a child who was afraid he wouldn’t get back to his common room before curfew. Draco felt a dull flush mounting in his cheeks, and managed to incline his head in the kind of small bow that Scrimgeour would expect before he clasped his hands behind him.   
  
He was ready for a scolding. He was not ready for Potter to suddenly appear at his side, the captives now hung behind him in midair like trussed birds. And he was far from prepared for the friendly arm that Potter slung over his shoulder, while he faced his audience bright-eyed and smiling. It was enough for one to forget the dust that covered his hair and clothing. Draco was sure that none of the newspaper articles later would mention it, at least.  
  
A murmur of excitement traveled through the audience. Multiple cameras flashed and clicked. Potter just bowed his head with assumed modesty, and Draco heard more than one witch sigh about how handsome he was.  
  
 _You can_ have _him_! he would have shouted, if that hadn’t been even more undignified. As it was, he had to bite his lips in vexation and stand still, waiting for the moment when Potter would speak up and humiliate him even further.  
  
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Potter announced, “you are, at this moment, looking at a real live hero.”  
  
Laughter answered him. “Of course we are!” someone shouted.  
  
“Oh, not me,” said Potter, with eyes so wide and innocent that it took people a moment to realize what he’d said. When they did, demands for an explanation appeared. Draco tried subtly to pry at Potter’s arm over his shoulder, but it was like an iron bar.  
  
“Draco Malfoy,” said Potter, with a tip of his head at Draco, therefore stealing the last anonymity Draco could have expected. At least some of the pictures might have said, “Auror Potter and friend.” Draco stared at the floor and waited for the jeering.  
  
“He was a _Death Eater_ ,” a deep voice called, predictably.  
  
“And he’s more than repaid his debt!” Potter roared back, loud enough to make Draco jump. “Or do you think that he’s so intent on joining his old comrades that he’d just _pretend_ to prevent them from attacking me long enough for me to survive?”  
  
More blinks. More stares. Potter jerked his head at Rodolphus and Dolohov. “These are two of the more dangerous rogue Death Eaters who still survive,” he said. “They appeared to attack me today, and I froze up. It’s been too long since I was in _real_ danger. That’s what being called a hero when you’ve only ever performed one heroic act will do to you—“  
  
 _It’s all right for him to say that, since he knows they’ll just take it as modesty and reassure him_ , Draco thought, but most of him was still too numb to respond.   
  
“And _Auror Malfoy_ here—“ Potter emphasized the title while glaring slightly at the Minister, “cast a bloody clever spell that held them at bay while I could recover my wits. I would have _died_ if he hadn’t been with me. He’s a _hero_. Why don’t you interview _him_ , while I go interrogate these two?” He nodded briskly to everyone and then turned, gesturing with his wand so that Dolohov and Rodolphus once more followed him down the corridor.  
  
Avid eyes turned on Draco. He lifted his chin and bore with it, since he had no choice. He was well-aware that this was the most prestige he had received since he entered the Ministry.  
  
And he had only got it because of Potter. That rankled.  
  
Except…  
  
Except that only the two of them really _knew_ that. Potter had spun the story to make it seem as if the bravery and initiative had all been Draco’s, and he certainly seemed to have no interest in telling the truth. It really wasn’t all that different from some of the things Draco had done during Hogwarts to gain prestige for himself or Slytherin House.  
  
Of course, Potter had the motive of trying to get into Draco’s pants. That _had_ to be the reason he was doing this.   
  
Well, he would have another think coming if he believed that pathetic gratitude would really throw a _Malfoy_ into his arms. Draco answered questions absently but with the precision that his father had drilled into him while he went over Potter’s behavior in the last few weeks.  
  
Yes, that was the reason. Do nice things for Draco, try to make him look good, and in the end he imagined Draco would swoon for him just like a little blonde witch.  
  
It wouldn’t work. It _wouldn’t_. Draco might be attracted, but there was a large difference between thinking that and actually falling for an obnoxious git like Potter.  
  
*  
  
Draco noticed something different the moment he strode into the manor house where the Death Eaters usually met. There wasn’t only an absence of people, but a blazing trace of magical signatures, as though they _had_ been here.  
  
Just before he arrived.  
  
Draco drew his wand and looked around cautiously. Maybe it was an ambush. Maybe they blamed him for Dolohov and Rodolphus being captured, and had set this up so they could kill and torture him.  
  
“Ah, Malfoy.”  
  
Draco turned swiftly. Prince was striding towards him, the thick robes that always swayed about him muffling his movements as usual. Draco bit his lip in vexation. He almost thought he could have told who the man was if not for those robes. He knew other people who walked in that determined fashion. But without being able to hear the sounds of footsteps or see the exact movements of legs, identification was impossible.   
  
“I suspect you’re wondering why no one else was here to greet you,” said Prince, and tilted his head arrogantly. He’d come to a stop about three feet away from Draco and was examining him with what Draco thought was a pleased expression. “The truth is, I think you’ve become too prominent in the Ministry recently. You will be watched. They will be jealous of your sudden rise in rank—“  
  
“They, my lord?” Draco interrupted.   
  
Prince didn’t take offense to the interruption; perhaps the title pleased him too much. “The other Aurors who have struggled for years and didn’t achieve what you did in the matter of a few minutes, because the insufferable _Potter_ —“ he sneered the name “—took notice of you. They’ll be jealous. It’s best to keep you away from their prying eyes. I’ve assigned Bellatrix and Yaxley to an attack on Potter that I’m absolutely sure will be foolproof as well as effective. You can relax for now, and await the grand news of Potter’s death!”  
  
Draco’s chest tightened. Potter was annoying, of course he was, but no one deserved to be targeted by someone like Prince, and for such an irrational reason. Draco had combed through the records in the days between Dolohov and Rodolphus’s attack and now, and still he hadn’t found the name of anyone who matched Prince’s description of his defeat. That meant Prince had probably exaggerated how much he suffered, or how much of it was Potter’s fault, or both. Why not? It was certainly what the Dark Lord had used to do.  
  
“Yes, my lord,” he said, because he knew that pushing for details now would only get Prince to strike out at him. With any luck, he might be able to owl Bellatrix and pry. She was probably so proud of her part in the mission that she’d babble on to him about it. And that would be good, because of the Death Eaters remaining, she was the most dangerous. “There is nothing else that you need me to do, then?”  
  
“Absolutely nothing!” Prince beamed at him, and reached out to squeeze his shoulder. Draco hoped he managed to conceal his wince at the strength in the other man’s fingers. “I know you’re probably angry at missing the attack, but really, it was for the best. You’ve preserved your cover beautifully so far.” Was it Draco’s imagination, or was there a hint of suspicion in those deep tones? “This way, you can do so in perfect safety. If you don’t know anything about the attack ahead of time, no one can think that you should have prevented it.”  
  
 _And I really won’t be able to_. Draco could feel something like panic clawing up the inside of his chest. Bellatrix was dangerous because of her madness. Yaxley had a streak of something like common sense. And though Prince’s other plans hadn’t been masterworks of subtlety, there was always the chance that this one would be.  
  
“I understand, my lord,” he said, and waited until Prince had nodded at him and left the room. Then he strode grimly out himself, mind already on the owls he wanted to send—a less relaxing way to spend a Sunday evening than laughing at a roomful of idiots, that was for certain. One owl would go to his aunt, implying his envy of her exalted position and begging her to let a few details slip.  
  
The other would go to Potter, carrying the only warning Draco could give him: that Bellatrix and Yaxley would be after him soon, and that he _must_ remain in the company of his bodyguards as much as possible.   
  
Potter hadn’t listened to him so far. But from what Draco could remember, given hazy snatches of overheard conversations long gone, Potter had a special grudge of some kind against Bellatrix. Perhaps he would be more inclined to pay attention with her name in the letter.  
  
*  
  
Draco was walking down the corridor to his office the next day, after yet another unsatisfactory meeting with Scrimgeour—the man might have to treat Draco with more courtesy now, but he didn’t have to like it—when someone snagged his robe sleeve and drew him into an alcove. Draco immediately whipped out his wand and turned, only to find himself caught and held immobile against a strong chest.  
  
“Just slow down, Draco,” Potter’s amused voice whispered into his ear. “We’ll get to the part where we _stick_ each other later.”  
  
Draco hissed under his breath, but reluctantly put his wand away. “You received my owl?” he asked, deciding that Potter must have paid attention after all and come to ask about more details. He hoped so. Bellatrix had only owled him back with a simpering tinge to her writing, saying she was sorry but really couldn’t divulge any details of the mission to Draco.  
  
“Yes, and it was dazzlingly uninformative,” Potter drawled, seeming content to maintain his hold on Draco and even run his hand up and down his arm. At least there was cloth between them. Draco knew he had gooseflesh from the places where small hairs stood on end and strained towards Potter’s touch, and he didn’t want the prat to see it. He would probably listen to Draco’s body over Draco’s mouth. “I need more specifics. Where does Lestrange plan to appear? What about Yaxley? What special talents do they have that they might have picked up after the war? Will anyone else come with them—this Prince leader that you mentioned in your letter, perhaps?”  
  
“I don’t _know_ ,” Draco said clearly. “That was the whole point of getting you to stay with someone else, Potter, so that you would be protected no matter where they appeared. Prince deliberately prevented me from finding out.”  
  
“Oh.” Potter was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he brightened up. “Well, why don’t we make it more tempting for them? The way we inadvertently did last time? We’ll Apparate to a _special_ place I know together. If they follow us, we’ll capture them easily enough. Especially you, my big strong hero—“  
  
“Will you _stop_ talking like that?” Draco snapped. “Respect was the thing I wanted most from anyone in the Ministry, and the way you got it for me is cheap and tawdry.”  
  
“Really?” Potter’s voice became deep and teasing. “The thing you wanted _most_ of all? From anyone in the Ministry? Hmmm?”  
  
That came far too close to Draco’s own confused feelings for Potter. On the other hand, flailing about and snapping like a mad dog would _reveal_ them, and Draco was determined to keep them hidden as much as possible.  
  
“I’ll thank you to let me go,” he said, turning his head slightly so that he could stare into Potter’s eyes. They were standing _awfully_ close, so that Potter almost breathed down his neck. “You said once that this wasn’t about making me love you. You can still avoid creating outright hatred in me, however, if you _draw back now_.”  
  
Potter’s hands fell from his arms. Draco liked to think they had done it nervelessly, as though Potter was suddenly frightened to touch him any longer, but he doubted it. He busied himself with dusting off his robes, as though Potter’s touch had brought about sudden pollution.  
  
 _You never know. It could have_.  
  
“As I was saying,” Potter continued without missing a beat, “if we go there and no one follows us, at least we can have the benefit of time alone.”  
  
“Hearing you say those things is hardly better than feeling you touch me,” Draco said, and turned around to face him. He used the same serious, intent tone that had worked so well to make Potter back away physically. If it could be used for one thing, why not the other? “You _know_ that, Potter. All I’ve ever asked for since this began was your attention and your honesty. Tell me why you really want to bring me there. End this game you’re playing.”  
  
For long moments, Potter held his gaze, while emotions Draco didn’t understand passed across his face. There was a kind of wild yearning, as though he were looking back on a decision he had made and regretted keenly. There was also anger, and resentment, and helplessness. And for a moment, Draco thought he saw lust, deep-rooted and long-lasting, but that was so much his own hope that he had to dismiss it.  
  
“Sorry,” Potter whispered, his voice low enough that he seemed to be afraid of outside listeners. “That’s the one thing I can’t do, not at this stage in the game. It would end everything too quickly, and it would make you react in ways that I _can’t_ have you reacting, not if everything’s to be in the proper place for the last move.”  
  
And he leaned forwards to kiss Draco lightly on the cheek, a tender gesture so at odds with the flirting obnoxiousness that Draco just stared. A moment later, Potter had shoved past him, out of the alcove, and was hurrying down the corridor so fast that his robes whipped behind him.  
  
“Potter!” Draco bellowed, not caring if it made some Aurors turn to look at him and lowered his newly gained status in the Ministry. Curiosity burned in him for the first time as a pure emotion. Before, he had wanted to know why Potter was acting the way he did simply to put an end to the torment. Now he was sure the answer would be interesting. “You can’t tell me that and then _leave me here_.”  
  
Potter glanced back at him, the hint of a devilish smile on his face. “I don’t see why not!” he called. “We’ll meet again soon enough.”  
  
He turned a corner, and by the time Draco had reached it, he was gone.   
  
Fuming and frowning, Draco returned to his own office and worked on a report on the capture of Rodolphus and Dolohov, because that was all he had to do. But his emotions were in turmoil, and for the first time, he would have been glad to be Potter, who could quit early and stroll out of the building at any time he desired.  
  
*  
  
Potter was ahead of him when Draco stepped into the alley outside the Ministry’s false phone box.  
  
Draco slowed, his skin tingling. He had thought he might find Potter here. _Why_ , he didn’t know—maybe just memories of the way that Potter had accosted him that day a few weeks ago when Draco had lingered on his way home. Now he waited for the other man to notice him, his steps soundless.  
  
Two sharp _cracks_ of Apparition echoed around the alley, and Bellatrix and Yaxley appeared, the one in front of and the other behind Potter. Yaxley was between him and Draco. The Death Eater immediately went about setting up Silencing and privacy charms, while Bellatrix screamed something at the top of her voice and launched a curse at their mutual target.  
  
Draco took a few deep, gasping breaths. He had to make a choice. There was no way that Potter could handle _both_ of the most competent Death Eaters alone. But this time, fighting Yaxley would almost certainly get his true loyalties reported to Prince.  
  
Yaxley aimed his wand at Potter, who probably knew he was there but couldn’t afford to turn away from the madwoman in front of him.  
  
Draco made his decision. And it was a decision based on what was right and what was practical, not the few moments of sanity that Potter had shown him in that alcove earlier.  
  
He hurled forwards, the sudden sound of his running making Yaxley jerk and glance over his shoulder. Draco cast low, from his hip, a crackling line of red light that should bind Yaxley’s hands to his feet and leave Draco free to help Potter with his aunt.  
  
Except, of course, that nothing could ever go so simply, and so Yaxley threw up a Shield Charm in time and then danced to the side, forcing Draco to adjust his aim so he wouldn’t hit Potter. Yaxley was snarling now, his wand flicking through a jagged pattern of movements that Draco didn’t recognize. He must have been casting nonverbally, because his voice was occupied shouting something else.  
  
“I _knew_ it, Malfoy! You couldn’t fool _me_ with all your sniveling protestations of loyalty! Brat, traitor, _Potter-lover_!”  
  
Draco had a moment to be amused that those were apparently the worst insults in Yaxley’s vocabulary, and then Yaxley’s signature curse, hundreds of little flying blades, was coming at him.  
  
A curse that Draco had never learned how to counter.  
  
Draco had no option but to Apparate, and he did, more quickly than he would have thought he could. And he even Apparated into the space he had been aiming at, directly behind Yaxley. He heard the sharp rattle and clatter of the knives hitting the walls and stones where he’d been, in the instant before Yaxley turned around to stare at him, mouth wide, eyes filled with denial.  
  
Draco gave him a nasty smile, filled, for a moment, with longing to destroy the bastard. No one would ever know if Draco cast a spell that sent him to permanent “bed rest” in St. Mungo’s. It could be passed off as a matter of self-defense, or Draco not knowing his own magical strength. Potter and Bellatrix were too engaged in their battle to notice, and Yaxley certainly wouldn’t be around to contradict what he said.  
  
But Draco remembered, almost too late, that he was an Auror, and that he didn’t do those kinds of things anymore. With only mild regret, he cast a spell that caused Yaxley’s heart to labor oddly for a moment, drawing his immediate attention, and then Disarmed and Stupefied him. He thought a moment, then added ropes, too, just to keep the fool still.  
  
Then he stepped over Yaxley and moved cautiously forwards, uncertain, for the moment, how he could best assist Potter.  
  
He and Bellatrix traded places so often, whirling around and around in a tight, chaotic circle, that Draco had no idea how to fire a spell that would definitely hit his aunt instead of Potter. Bellatrix’s cloak flew, and it seemed that she somehow had breath enough to cackle and cast at the same time. Potter’s face, when Draco could get a glimpse of it, was set and calm, though sweaty, his eyes so narrowed and intent that Draco would have given up the moment Potter looked at him that way.  
  
Draco watched for a short time longer, still not seeing how he could enter the battle. And then he noticed something _else_ , and leaned in, staring.  
  
Potter—  
  
Potter was being _cautious_. The sharp glitter of several modified Shield Charms sparkled a few inches from his skin, bouncing half of Bellatrix’s nastier spells before they could connect. Potter defended as often as he attacked, which was probably the reason that Bellatrix wasn’t stretched out on the ground yet. He knew that he could have wielded his magical strength in such a grand manner that she was absolutely crushed, but he also knew that that would have left him open to her strikes in the meantime. And with Bellatrix, even a moment’s hesitation could be a moment too long.  
  
Draco knew that.  
  
He would not have expected _Potter_ to know it. This wary fighter didn’t bear comparison with the man who had sprawled on Draco’s desk and bragged that he could take care of any threat at all.  
  
Even as he thought that, Potter stamped his foot hard on the ground. Draco’s breathing sped up. He knew that signal, part of a system used in Auror training to tell a partner to use a certain kind of spell. And this particular signal called for an intense illusion.  
  
Draco cast an auditory illusion, the sharpest and most distracting sound he knew: his mother screaming at a house-elf over a broken vase.  
  
“And just _what_ did you think you were doing? I’ll have you know that my husband spent _hundreds_ of Galleons on that vase—“  
  
Bellatrix’s head whipped around. Draco could see her lips part in surprise. “Narcissa?” she whispered.  
  
“ _Stupefy_!” Potter roared. The jet of red light caught Bellatrix in the chest and downed her at last. Potter Summoned her wand next, and conjured chains. Then he knelt to make sure they were properly fastened on her wrists and ankles.  
  
Draco stood behind Potter, breathing easily. He was waiting for the moment when Potter turned and glanced up at him.  
  
A few things still didn’t make sense, but he knew, now, that much of Potter’s behavior with him must have been an act.  
  
“Well?” he challenged.  
  
Potter grinned sheepishly, like a schoolboy caught cheating at Gobstones, and reached into his robe pocket. He must have enchanted it to hold far more than it normally could, because the tangle of cloth he pulled out was _thick_. He held it up. Draco stared in silence. He could make out the familiar outlines of Death Eater robes and a white mask.  
  
Potter raised an eyebrow, and touched his wand to his throat. The voice that emerged was Prince’s, smooth and deep. “Really, Mr. Malfoy, you should have expected it. After all, did you ever see us both in the same place at the same time?”


	6. What Draco Wants

****  
Draco had always preferred to use his wand to deal with troublemakers. The Muggle method was much less dignified, and you ran the risk of getting hurt, too. He had watched in confusion and irritation when some pure-blood wizards in school, even some in Slytherin, decided to roll around on the floor like dogs and punch each other.  
  
But now he thought he understood why some of those wizards had chosen this method of payback, untraditional though it was: it felt so much more _satisfying_.  
  
The _crack_ as he punched Potter in the jaw echoed throughout the alley. Potter fell backwards, sprawling over Bellatrix’s body for a moment. Several muffled, pained noises that Draco was not inclined to listen to burbled up from his mouth. Draco stalked closer, rubbing his stinging knuckles but more than ready to do that again.  
  
“You _fucker_ ,” he hissed. “Do you understand what you’ve _cost_ me, in terms of time and worry and sheer _fear_ , these past weeks?”  
  
“Yes,” Potter muttered. He sat up cradling his jaw, wincing with every movement, but he could still _talk_ , and that was too much for Draco’s peace of mind. “I had an excellent idea of what would happen to me, and to you, when I began this charade.”  
  
“Obviously not,” Draco said coldly. “Or you would have realized that I have no intention of letting you emerge alive from this alley.”  
  
He had hoped the threat would scare Potter. And he certainly would have lashed out again if he had spotted a smile on the idiot’s face. He didn’t expect Potter to give him a long, keen look, and then to lay his wand down, next to the robes and mask he had worn when he pretended to be Prince, and spread his hands defenselessly.  
  
Draco clenched his fists. He wanted more than anything else to kick Potter in the groin, or punch him again, or just fall on top of him and whale away with his fists until he heard bones cracking, but everything he had learned and internalized in the past few years told him not to attack a helpless enemy.  
  
He didn’t know how long he stood there, trembling from head to foot and wishing there was a harmless but painful curse that fit his mood. Then he turned abruptly away and said, “I reckon I should let you get on with transporting my aunt and Yaxley into the Ministry and taking credit for ending the Death Eaters. _Again_. It’s not as though you need me there, is it?”  
  
And he Apparated, hoping that the _crack_ would startle Potter as much as the sound of Draco’s fist slamming into his jaw had, and that it would prove enough satisfaction to have had the last word.  
  
*  
  
It didn’t, of course. Irritation and curiosity corroded his resolve to have nothing more to do with Potter. He sat at home, staring into his Firewhiskey more than drinking it, and still wanted to know what the git had thought he was _doing_. He could have pretended to be Prince and worked out his brilliant plan on the remaining Death Eaters without irritating Draco. He didn’t need to make efforts to involve Draco in the fights and captures at all.   
  
He certainly hadn’t needed to _flirt_ with him like that.  
  
No matter how he turned the facts around in his head, Draco couldn’t get them to fit. Of course, if Potter was enough of a wanker, they didn’t need to fit. He could have involved Draco just to taunt him with the thought of what he’d never have.   
  
But those glimpses of unwonted emotion in Potter’s eyes, in the Ministry and after they’d finished their duel in the abandoned house, meant that Draco couldn’t think it was that simple. Maybe this was _another_ game, to lure Draco into coming close again, but it seemed awfully complicated—and sophisticated—a game for Potter to play for a very small gain.  
  
As much as Draco would have liked to believe otherwise, he knew he simply was not as important to Potter as Potter was to him. So he should have played one game, perhaps, with Draco, and then neglected to play others.  
  
Draco wanted answers.  
  
Tomorrow, he would get them if he had to Body-Bind Potter and keep him in one of the Ministry’s unused storage rooms, _sans_ food and water, until he talked.  
  
*  
  
He noticed a difference in the Ministry the moment he stepped into the Atrium. People glanced at him from the corners of their eyes and uttered small envious sounds. Then they mentioned his name loudly enough for him to hear, which wasn’t that unusual, but in this case, the tones of the words seemed to be composed of awe and longing.  
  
The same Ministry workers who had spat “Malfoy” as if the name were profanity for months now met his eyes and nodded, as though he had always been an honored colleague. More than one person insisted on stopping him to ask how his work was going. Draco answered politely—his mother had ensured he could answer questions like these no matter how confused he was—and felt his uneasiness grow as he took the lift up to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.  
  
Potter had said something, obviously. But what? Draco could hardly imagine that the anti-Potter feeling in the Ministry was so strong that he had gained everyone’s admiration by punching the Savior in the jaw.  
  
He stepped into the corridor that led towards his office, and froze. Minister Scrimgeour was waiting there, with an uncomfortable but resigned expression on his face, and behind him were at least several of the reporters who had accompanied him the other day when Potter and Draco returned from their capture of Rodolphus and Dolohov. They all focused their attention and their cameras on Draco. So did the selfsame Aurors who had sneered at him and glanced pointedly the other way only the day before.   
  
As Draco stood there, astonished, they brought their hands together and began to applaud him. Vaguely, somewhere, Scrimgeour was talking about “Draco Malfoy, the Hero of the Hour,” and various people came up to pump his hand and explain how brave he was and how they had always known he would make someone of himself at last.  
  
Draco held his smile, letting it grow as he realized he wasn’t about to be attacked, and listened. He quickly gathered that they credited him with the capture of Yaxley and saving Potter’s life during his duel with Bellatrix.  
  
Exactly the way it had happened. This time, Potter had told the truth, and still made Draco out to be a hero.  
  
Draco was sure that some of the looks he received were feigned, given the determination endemic to the Ministry to curry favor with whoever was on top at the moment. But in others, in certain stiff nods and firm handshakes and the way that his colleagues met his gaze, he sensed that he had passed a test and finally dispelled the suspicions that had kept them wary of him since he entered the Auror program. He didn’t have the sincere respect of everyone in the Ministry. But he had it from most of the people who mattered, and even Scrimgeour didn’t snap at him or make barbed remarks over the necessity of acknowledging the courage of a Malfoy.  
  
It was all very nice, and when Draco let himself believe in and enjoy it, it let sunlight into a corner of his soul that felt neglected, dusty, disused.   
  
But none of that lessened his resolve to get Potter alone. He _had_ to. He _had_ to know the man’s motives for painting Draco to look so good—which was, after all, the way he always should have looked—after Draco had hurt him, and when he’d spent so much time in the last few weeks making trouble for him.  
  
*  
  
Potter was in his office, alone. He chewed the end of a quill as he contemplated the parchment in front of him, which Draco sincerely hoped wasn’t a report. Potter’s scrawl decorated it in a maze of black lines that suggested other Aurors had gone blind trying to read his script before now.  
  
He didn’t bother knocking, but strode in and locked the door behind him with several charms that no one else in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was likely to know, unless they’d been friends with Lucius Malfoy three decades ago in Hogwarts. He turned back around and found Potter staring at him with absolute surprise on his features.  
  
Draco licked his lips and tried not to admit to himself how very good it felt to surprise Potter this way.  
  
“I want to know why,” he said. “The _whole_ story. _All_ of it. And if you don’t give it to me, I sincerely hope that you don’t need to sit down for the next week.” He aimed his wand at Potter and held it steady.  
  
Potter considered him with the same weighty gaze he’d given Draco during that moment in the alcove. Then he nodded and set his quill aside. He didn’t make any sudden movements as he locked his hands together behind his head and crossed his legs in front of him, and that alone made it easy for Draco to put up with him adopting such a casual attitude. This wasn’t casual for Potter at all, no more than it was for Draco.  
  
“All right,” Potter said. “I’ve been looking for a way to get rid of the Death Eaters for a while. The spells around the manor house, the ones that prevented anyone who didn’t bear a Dark Mark from entering, were the biggest obstacle at first. It took intense research before I was able to figure out that the ward was actually a variation on an anti-trespassing spell, one that allowed the caster to set conditions on who could come in and who was kept out. And then I had to read the memories of one of the captive Death Eaters to learn the exact wording that Voldemort had used. ‘Only those marked by the Dark Lord may enter.’”  
  
Draco snorted. “You don’t have a Dark Mark, Potter. That doesn’t explain—“  
  
Apparently Potter wasn’t entirely cowed, since he was still able to interrupt. “The wording didn’t specify the Dark Mark. It just said that the Dark Lord had to have been the one to create the marking. And, well.” He lifted a hand to his forehead, knocking back the fringe to display his scar.  
  
Draco narrowed his eyes, reluctantly impressed. “So that was the reason you came in alone?”  
  
Potter nodded. “One of them, yes. By that time, there was a more personal reason.”  
  
Draco folded his arms. “Tell me.”  
  
“You’d been watching out for the remaining Death Eaters for years,” Potter said quietly. “I didn’t want to simply arrest them and steal the victory from under you. It would have made it look as if you couldn’t do your job. So I made sure, when the Death Eaters attacked me, that you were there and could play the part of a hero.” He grimaced a little. “That didn’t work out right the first time. I tried to play up the fact that you’d saved my life in the pub, knocking me to the floor to avoid a curse, but no one else paid much attention. I made sure they had no choice but to acknowledge your heroism in the last two attacks.”  
  
Draco shook his head, so many questions crowding to the front of his tongue that he truly wasn’t sure which one would emerge first. Finally, he said, “And why did it matter to you what other people thought of me?”  
  
Potter’s eyes became piercing. Though Draco knew _he_ was the one in the right and _Potter_ was the one on trial, he still shivered. It was difficult to face those eyes in their brightness and clarity.  
  
“Because I’ve been attracted to you for an awful long time,” Potter said calmly. His voice didn’t tremble the way Draco’s have if he were required to bare his heart. “I can’t remember a time since we started Auror training that I didn’t admire your looks. And then it became admiration for your strength, for the way you did the right thing even when people kept despising you for your name. There couldn’t have been a clearer indication that you’d _finally_ learned blood isn’t everything, and you couldn’t be a good or a respected person just because of who your father was. It drove me mad to see everyone else ignoring you just when they should have been supporting and helping you.” Potter’s fists clenched. “And unfortunately, by that time, I’d crafted my surface persona so well that no one believed me when I tried to support you.”  
  
Draco gave his head a little shake. “Explain _that_ one, please.” And then he was annoyed with himself, because he hadn’t meant to add the “please.”  
  
It brightened Potter’s eyes, though. He even gave Draco a small smile. Draco bit his lips so he wouldn’t smile back.  
  
“I’ve been acting for years,” said Potter, with a slight shrug. “I learned the basics during the war, when I had to maintain my cheerful and confident exterior no matter how afraid I was of facing Voldemort. It was for the sake of other people. And when I tried to act like myself after the war, I found that no one wanted to listen. They _wanted_ the hero. They _wanted_ someone who reacted to his success the way they thought they would have reacted. So that was what I gave them.”  
  
“The playboy?”  
  
“The result of rumor, strategic appearances at certain times, and a goodly number of friends.” Potter sighed. “I could have acted like myself in spite of public disapproval, I reckon, but then I wouldn’t have got nearly as much done. They listen to me this way. They’re sure they’re manipulating me, because a certain good-natured stupidity is part of the persona. So everyone accepts it when I do something that’s slightly unorthodox or uncomfortable, because I present it in an orthodox manner.” He glanced at Draco, and again a small smile quirked his lips. “So they accept you as a hero. They never would have if I’d shown that I wouldn’t be their tool, and then tried to support your claim to respect.”  
  
Draco folded his arms. “And it never once occurred to you to drop the act and approach me like a normal person? Or accept my _help_ in defeating the Death Eaters, instead of using Prince as a front?”  
  
“As for the second question,” Potter said, “I know I’m a good actor. I wasn’t certain about you. You wore honesty on your face far too often that first evening I was present, didn’t you know? The others didn’t notice only because they really are stupid. I could have spoken to you, but that would probably have prejudiced your reactions. And that could have been deadly, at least until Dolohov and Bellatrix were under control.”  
  
“You trusted me to risk my life, but not yours?”  
  
“Yes.” Potter’s gaze was placid, as if he had no idea why Draco might find that insulting.  
  
And really, Draco reckoned, it wasn’t as big a deal as it could have been. He would have done something similar if he had been in control of the situation. Certainly, Potter’s public persona didn’t make him seem trustworthy, and if Potter had admired his honesty and his conscience…  
  
Yes, he might not have seemed like someone capable of playing adoring Death Eater and fellow conspirator, even for the few weeks it would have been necessary.  
  
“That still leaves unanswered the question of why you never approached me before this,” he said. “And why you flirted with me at all. If you wanted to make me look like a hero, you could have done it without _that_.”  
  
Potter’s smile turned wistful. “There, I admit, I was purely selfish,” he said. “I knew it was the only chance I’d have to kiss you or to touch you at all. I wanted that—more than is comfortable to admit, anyway.” For the first time, a flush slid across his cheeks. “And a few years ago, I did try to approach you and drop the act as much as possible so that you could see I honestly wanted you. It didn’t work.”  
  
“You didn’t!” Draco said, startled. “I would have remembered that.”  
  
“You didn’t even notice.” Potter gave him a fond look. “You were too focused on your work. And so I gave up and contented myself with watching from a distance. Then I realized I had a way to destroy the last Death Eaters, give you the respect you wanted, and get a chance to touch you at the same time. It wouldn’t be for long or be nearly enough. But there it was. And I’m not a saint, Draco, even if I’m a considerably better person than I was a few years ago. I couldn’t resist the temptation. I told myself that, even though I was making you embarrassed and uncomfortable, it would be worthwhile because in the end I’d get you what you most desired.”  
  
Draco closed his eyes. He had not known what he expected from Potter’s confession, but it had not been that. He had never heard of a scheme so Gryffindor and so Slytherin at the same time. He had never realized that someone like Potter might pine after _him_.  
  
And to hear that he had resigned himself to not having Draco…  
  
“You could have tried flirting openly again,” he said, staring at Potter. “I might have listened. You don’t _know_ I wouldn’t have.”  
  
“Why would you?” Potter stared at him with honest surprise in his expression. “You hate me. I’ve accepted that. It’s something I’m sorry for, but it’s not something I can change. And after the stunts I pulled in the last few weeks, I know that you only have more reason to hate me.” He flipped his hand off his brow, giving Draco a small salute. “I’ve made the best impact on your life I can, and I hope you’ll consider the negative ones that came along with it a fair price to pay.” He turned back to the report in front of him.  
  
Draco shook his head. “You’re an idiot, Potter,” he whispered.  
  
One corner of Potter’s mouth twisted up, though he kept his eyes on the parchment. He had already dipped his quill in the ink again and begun to write. “I know that,” he said. “A smarter man would have figured out a way to approach you years ago. But I’ve laid out the truth, Draco. I swear that that was it, it should explain everything, and that I’m not holding anything back. Go away now, please?”  
  
Draco crossed the distance between them in three strides and seized Potter’s shoulder. The green eyes that looked up at him were hard, hiding the vulnerability that had shown in them a minute before.  
  
“I let you punch me yesterday,” Potter said lowly, “because I knew I deserved it. But healing that cost me enough problems. If I let you punch me again, I stand a good chance of making other people wonder, and—“  
  
Draco kissed him.   
  
He took good care to make it a kiss as hard as the punch, to show that he hadn’t forgiven Potter so much as accepted that his motives were utterly different from what Draco had assumed they were. The man was still an _idiot_ for not approaching him openly from the beginning, and making more of an effort to gain Draco’s attention. He was an idiot for deciding that he should act like a fool instead of like himself, no matter what it won for other people. He was—  
  
He was a bloody good kisser, now that he seemed to have decided some significant time period had passed and he could return Draco’s snog with interest instead of sitting passively under his tongue and teeth.   
  
Potter surged to his feet, his hands making their way to Draco’s shoulders. Draco gripped back, keeping up the intense pressure, the demand for an honest response. And Potter gave that to him, with a tongue that scraped places in Draco’s mouth he hadn’t known existed, and little moans and sighs that sounded delicious. He was gasping by the time the kiss ended. His mouth was wet and swollen, and his eyes looked dazed.  
  
“You’re giving me a second chance,” he whispered.  
  
Draco nodded, taking one of Potter’s hands between his own.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I _want_ to,” Draco said fiercely. “And I’m tired of denying myself things I want. Do you know how many times in the past few years I’ve wished you were different, that you didn’t act like the world worshipped you? I wanted to share conversations about spell modification with you. I wanted to be someone you trusted and talked to, because I assumed that your friends knew the better you. I wasn’t wrong about that, was I?”  
  
Potter shook his head with a frown. “But I still can’t give you _everything_ you want, Draco. I can’t give you public acknowledgment or—“  
  
“Yes, you can,” Draco said, and his tone made Potter shut up and listen to him. “Because that’s part of the second chance. You’ll show the world what you really are. The intelligent, determined, focused Auror. The amount of energy you put into playacting should go into solving crimes and persuading allies instead. And you don’t seem to enjoy the pretense anymore.”  
  
Potter ran his free hand through his hair. “I don’t. But—“  
  
“You’ll be what you are openly,” Draco said. “The Savior of the Wizarding World. The Auror.” He brought Potter’s knuckles to his lips, watching him intently. “My boyfriend. That’s what you give me, or I walk.”  
  
Potter’s eyes blazed. “There was never a choice,” he said, his voice fragile with hope. “Draco, I—I never asked for this because I thought I wouldn’t get it. And there’s no point in reaching for the _utterly_ impossible. But if you’re willing to give me a chance to earn it, then there’s _nothing_ I wouldn’t do to show you I want this.”  
  
Draco let his triumphant smile work its way across his face. “Then, Harry Potter,” he said, and kissed his cheek, “shall we go show the new you to the rest of the Ministry? I’ll enjoy the expressions of shock on their faces.”  
  
“It could lessen the respect you’ve won,” Harry warned. He was holding back still, hovering, darting little glances at Draco as if he expected Draco to announce _this_ was a joke any minute.  
  
“In the places where that respect is real, it won’t,” Draco said. “And I want this more.”  
  
An expression of incredible tenderness overcame Harry’s face. He reached out, took Draco’s jaw in his hand, and kissed him again. This time it was only a chaste brushing of lips, but it set Draco on fire anyway, made him want to dance and sing and shout.  
  
“Let’s, then,” Harry said. “And you can go back to being the only Slytherin around here. You’ll probably do it better, anyway.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Draco said. “I might just have learned the virtue of simplicity.”  
  
Harry grinned at him and firmed the clasp of his hand. They crossed to the door of Harry’s office side-by-side.  
  
For the first time in more years than he could remember, Draco was gleefully anticipating what would happen next—both in the corridors of the Ministry and when he got Harry home. It was a vast improvement on the gray boredom and sharp worry and cynical amusement he’d drifted through so many of his days in.  
  
 _When I grew a conscience, I forgot to have fun._ **** _  
  
It’s a good thing I’ll soon have a lover who’s experienced in both._


End file.
